


Rabbit Hole

by rayofillusion



Series: A Ghost from the Past [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Childhood Trauma, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hate Sex, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, Lesbian Character, Lesbian Sex, Love/Hate, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Useless Lesbians
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:15:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 104,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27879718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayofillusion/pseuds/rayofillusion
Summary: Only one thought occupied her mind: that of meeting Bellatrix. She didn’t know if she should meet her, nothing good would come out of it; she was sure of it. But really, it was her fault for suggesting it in the first place.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange
Series: A Ghost from the Past [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1992499
Comments: 182
Kudos: 345





	1. Open Wounds

**Author's Note:**

> So, here is Part 2 as promised! I have no idea how long this part is going to be... I have 4 chapters at the ready for now but I have roughly planned out where I wanna take this and I will have a lot of free time this month and next month due to my university remaining closed until early February, so I will try to update once a week.
> 
> You will get some answers to the questions that many of you had in this part, so here's chapter 1 with a look into Bellatrix's mind. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy. As always, comments are greatly appreciated. And thanks to @sapphicwitxch for listening to me go on and on about this fic and helping me with it!

_All that is gold does not glitter,  
Not all those who wander are lost;  
The old that is strong does not wither,  
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.  
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,  
A light from the shadows shall spring;  
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,  
The crownless again shall be king._

All That Is Gold Does Not Glitter, J. R. R. Tolkien

Consciousness crept in slowly, like a tide creeping up a beach and washing over it in waves. And with it came the pain. Despite the heaviness of her eyelids, she forced them open and was greeted by darkness.

Her vision was bleary and there was a buzzing sound in her ears. Where was she? She was lying on a cold, stony floor, the only light coming from a few feet away. She flexed her fingers and tried to move, but a sharp pain shot through her chest, making her gasp and freeze into place, and she put her hand on her chest. She fell back to the floor and tried to think, to remember with great effort. What had happened? She had been in a fight, and it had something to do with… with…

She closed her eyes and tried to remember. Memories flashed behind her eyelids, but they were fragmented. She groaned, both in pain and frustration.

She had been in a fight, yes, that much was clear. But who-

The Dark Lord.

Piece by piece, it was coming back to her. She remembered the Battle; she remembered the Dark Lord firing the Killing Curse at Potter in the Forbidden Forest; she remembered Potter dying and then suddenly coming back to life; she remembered the battle resuming; she remembered everyone rushing into the Great Hall, and-

Weasley. Molly Weasley.

She remembered duelling the hag and getting distracted because… because… The image of a bushy-haired witch crept to the forefront of her mind, and she jerked, the sudden movement making her groan with pain.

Granger. Hermione!

She now remembered getting distracted by the mangy scoundrel Greyback attacking her witch. She had killed him. And she remembered Weasley taking advantage of her lapse of attention to fire off a curse that struck her in the chest; she remembered being frozen into place and struggling to break free as excruciating pain slowly spread to her entire body; and she remembered meeting Granger’s wide eyes before she stumbled backwards.

Then it all went black.

And here she was now, lying on the cold ground of the Great Hall. It had to be the Great Hall. She tried raising her head to see where she was, but it was pointless. The strain on her neck and the pain in her chest were too great. She was like a stone under a mountain, forced to remain stuck to the ground she found herself on. Finally, she gave up and lay still, her breathing hard. Her head throbbed with every beat of her heart, and her chest hurt with every breath she took.

Broken rib? Internal bleeding? She remembered reading about it in a book many, many years ago. But she wasn’t bleeding, was she? She inhaled deeply, the action sending agony shooting through her limbs, and scanned her body for injuries. Nothing. Her hand went to her chest again, and she gritted her teeth; what curse had the old hag hit her with? If she was bleeding, it wasn’t on the outside at least.

She had no idea what to do and it was hard to concentrate, so for a while, she did nothing. The only thing she knew was that their side had lost. If they hadn’t, she wouldn’t be lying on the ground like this. Good. At least all her efforts hadn’t been in vain. Now, Granger would keep her end of the bargain and would keep Cissy and Draco safe.

Granger. Hermione…

Where was she now? The last thing she remembered was seeing the pained look on her face as she gripped her bleeding arm. She hoped she hadn’t been turned. She hoped she was safe wherever she was. She would need to see her once she figured out what happened to her. By some twist of fate, she was alive, and she had no intention of going back to Azkaban – a shiver ran down her spine at the thought – if the Order found out. Slowly as her mind cleared, a stubborn will to fight took hold and her survival instincts kicked in.

She had to get out of here. She _needed_ to get out of here. If she was found out now, no one would listen to her. As much as Hermione told her she would talk to them and explain their plan, she knew the Order harboured too much hatred for her just as she did, especially the Potter brat, and she didn’t believe for one second that they would be merciful now that they had won. Her witch could be so naive. There was no hope for her, but Cissy and Draco could be saved.

Where was her wand? She felt the ground around her with her hands but found nothing. It was hopeless. Her wand had either been knocked out of her hands during her fall or it had been taken from her after the Final Battle. With great effort, she rolled over onto her stomach and bit her tongue to not cry out in pain.

This new position, despite the pain, gave her a somewhat better view of her surroundings now that she didn’t have to crane her neck. She was definitely in the Great Hall; her eyes had gotten used to the darkness and she could make out the House banners that had been torn to shreds during the Battle a few feet from where she was. And she could also see some of the bodies lying on the ground.

It had to be the bodies of the other Death Eaters, for she knew the bodies of those who had died “honourably” and “heroically” and the bodies of those who had died fighting for the opposite side would never be mixed. The Order was just dualistic like that: always seeing the world in black and white, with the “bad” on one side and the “good” on the other.

She slowly turned her head to the side. She couldn’t make out who the bodies around her belonged to exactly, but they were definitely Death Eaters as they were all dressed in black and the darkness almost swallowed them. She hoped her _dear_ husband was among them; nothing would give her as much pleasure as knowing Rodolphus was dead. His death would break off their marriage, meaning she would finally be free, though she didn’t know if she could truly say she was free given the predicament she currently found herself in.

She scoffed; so, this was what she, the greatest duellist the wizarding world had seen, had been reduced to. She would make Molly Weasley pay for this but first, she needed to get out of here. And she needed to do it quick before someone came and noticed that she was very much alive and finished her off for good. It would be far too easy in her weakened state.

She turned her head to the other side and her eyes raked over the ground, looking as best as she could in the dark for anything that remotely looked like a wand. She silently prayed that the Order hadn’t taken all their wands and had left some of them behind in their haste. Technically, she could do wandless magic, but it would just drain her of what little energy was left in her body and she would need all her strength to Apparate if she managed to find a wand.

“Come on,” she muttered to herself as her eyes scanned the ground.

Her eyes had just gone over a body on her left when suddenly, a beam of moonlight dimly lit the Great Hall, casting a shimmer onto the bodies and most importantly, onto a long and thin object that was sticking out from under the leg of one of the bodies a few feet away from her. She _needed_ to get her hands on it. She _had_ to. It was her only way of getting out. Otherwise she would either just die here or rot away in Azkaban, being fed to the Dementors once again. She shivered.

She gritted her teeth as she willed her body to move and started to crawl towards the shimmer of light with great difficulty. The effort of resting her entire weight on her forearms and dragging herself across the ground made it harder to breathe by the second, and her heart beating wildly against her ribcage only intensified the pain in her chest. She broke into a sweat and she could feel her hair stick to her forehead and her dress to her back as she grunted and silently cursed under her breath. How had she been reduced to crawling on floors and panting like a fucking dog?

After what felt like an eternity – when in reality it had only taken her a few seconds – she reached her goal and slumped to the ground to catch her breath. Her lungs were burning from the exertion, her entire body felt bruised, and her elbows were aching from resting on the hard ground of the Great Hall. She needed to get out. _Now_.

She reached out a hand and grabbed the wand, swiftly pulling it from under the person lying on the floor. She stilled and strained her ears, waiting for a potential reaction, anything that would indicate that it was a trick to bait and catch her. But the Great Hall, the entire castle, was eerily quiet, and she sighed when nothing came.

She rolled onto her back, clutching the wand and staring at the once star-studded ceiling for a moment as a plan formed inside her head. She needed to act quick. She had been lucky so far that it was nighttime and nobody seemed to be roaming the apparently deserted corridors of the castle or watching over the bodies until they were taken care of, but she shouldn’t push it.

And with that, she rolled back onto her stomach and hissed with pain as she slowly moved her legs so that she rested on her hands and knees. _You can do this, Bella,_ she thought to herself, _you’ve been through worse, you’ve taken so many Crucios before, this is nothing._ And then she finally stood on shaky legs and stumbled a few steps backwards.

God, her head was throbbing, and she felt so dizzy, and she knew her legs would give out under her if she remained standing any longer. So, she closed her eyes and tried to focus on her destination despite the sound of her heart beating in her ears. For a moment, dizziness consumed her, and then she quickly spun on the spot.

She felt the familiar sensation of being harshly pressed from all directions and then she landed, her back hitting a hard floor with a loud thud and the air whooshing out of her.

She had done it! She had managed to Apparate!

But her relief was short-lived as excruciating pain, unlike the one she had felt just a few moments ago, spread through her shoulder down her arm, a warm liquid starting to coat the sleeve of her dress, the coppery scent tinging the air.

And she screamed in agony just as realisation of what had happened hit her like a Bludger-

Bellatrix sat up in bed with a gasp, eyes wide and body drenched in sweat. Her heart was hammering in her chest and she felt the beads of sweat gather on her upper lip. She took deep breaths, but her efforts were in vain as she trembled.

Nightmare. It was just a nightmare. She had been getting a lot of those ever since her escape from Azkaban all those years ago, but those were now coupled with nightmares relating to the aftermath of the Final Battle. She had been so close to dying then, and she inadvertently shuddered at the thought.

Her mind swirled at the pace of her racing heartbeat and she leaned against the headboard. She pulled her legs up to her chin and buried her hand in her messy dark hair. She had to calm down somehow. If she could just… She sighed.

After her escape from Azkaban, Cissy had always been at her side whenever she had a rough night, either to hand her a Calming Draught and Dreamless Sleep Potion or to lie in bed with her until they both fell asleep, Cissy hugging her close to herself.

She had never really been a hugger. Growing up in the Black household meant that you were never hugged as a child; not when you went to bed; not when you fell and skinned your knees; not when your favourite pet died; not when you were sick. In place of hugs, all you ever got was blank and emotionless stares. Anger and abuse were the only emotions that the Black family exhibited. In fact, her sisters had been the only people she had hugged in her life and even then, it only seldom happened. Despite that, Cissy’s hugs after her escape from Azkaban had brought her much needed warmth that she wasn’t able to give back, and she had welcomed it.

Now, though, she had to make do on her own. She had for the past decade. Too many times she had thought of revealing herself to Cissy over the past twelve years but had thought better of it at the last second every single time.

She now knew that Cissy had lied to the Dark Lord about Potter being dead in the Forbidden Forest and was one of the main reasons the Order had even won the War, but she also knew it had taken a lot of time for Cissy to restore the family name and for the wizarding world to accept both her and Draco into society again. And she hadn’t wanted all her efforts and hard work to go to waste then, so she had stayed hidden.

Her gut twisted and her head ached as she curled more into herself. She felt a pang in her chest and her hand shot up to rest on the spot just above her heart. What was this feeling? She felt sick.

She shook her head and pulled on her hair with a bitter laugh. “Get it together, you aren’t some dumb weakling,” she muttered to herself.

With a harsh jerk, she straightened up and threw the covers off her sweaty body. She threw her legs out of her warm bed and hissed when her bare feet touched the cold floor. She quickly padded over to the armchair that stood next to the window and slipped on the silky black dressing gown that she had haphazardly thrown on the armchair before going to bed.

Then she leaned against the wall and peaked through the black curtains. It was still night but not quite; she didn’t know what time it was, nor did she care enough to check, but it seemed that it was nearing dawn as she could faintly hear the birds chirping outside.

She opened the window a sliver and a soft breeze blew into the room, rustling the black curtains and raising goosebumps on her arms but she didn’t care. The cold didn’t affect her as it once had many, many years ago, and she liked to think she was immune to it now; spending almost fifteen years in the presence of chilling creatures who drained you of any warmth had that effect on you. She rested her hands on the windowsill and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath.

The fresh air always served to calm her down enough whenever she felt like this. And without it, she never seemed to get comfortable enough to go back to bed or whatever she had been doing before. So, she let the fresh air caress her face for a moment, cooling down the burning feeling on her skin, and let the rustle of the trees and the sounds of the surrounding forest lull her.

She opened her eyes again once her heartbeat had gone back to normal, and padded to the en-suite bathroom, leaving the window open.

She flicked the lights on with a flick of her wrist and walked over to the sink and turned on the faucet. Water came trickling out and she cupped both hands together, gathering the cold water in her palms and splashing it on her eyes, her cheeks, and her throat. She repeated the action a few more times before she gripped the sides of the sink, digging her fingers into the porcelain, and threw her head back, letting the cold droplets of water trickle down her throat and into her nightdress.

She sighed and looked down, watching the water rush from the faucet and swirl down the drain for a moment. She lifted her hand and made a lame attempt at combing through her messy dark curls with her fingers, but she soon gave up; her hair was untamable. She slowly lifted her head and looked at her own reflection in the ornate mirror. And she frowned.

The light in the bathroom was so bright and sterile, lacking any trace of warmth, and the imperfections on her face were shining like a beacon. She could distinctly see the faint wrinkles on her forehead, around her eyes and mouth. Overall, not the picture of youthful exuberance. There were the faintest traces of a purple bruising colour under her eyes, her skin had a pale and sallow colour to it, and her makeup was running down her face in streaks.

She watched as the black droplets gathered on her chin and slowly dripped into the sink, drop by drop, the still running water washing the black streaks away.

_Plop. Plop. Plop._

She huffed and shook her head. She leaned down again to splash water onto her face, rubbing at her face to remove the last remnants of makeup, and turned off the faucet. She grabbed the dark green towel hanging from the rod on her right and dried her face.

She stepped back and observed her full appearance in the mirror. Her dressing gown and one strap of her nightdress had slipped off her shoulder, revealing more of her pale skin under the bright light and almost completely baring her chest. Her eyes stopped on the scar sticking out of her nightdress.

She raised her hand and lightly brushed it down the scar, slowly tracing the jagged line with the tips of her fingers. The scar had been pink years ago, but it had slightly faded away over the years and was now shinier and paler. And her hand always automatically went there whenever she recalled what caused the scar in the first place. It was the only evidence of her near-death experience.

She gritted her teeth as she remembered the excruciating pain she had felt after the Battle of Hogwarts. She had been very confused then as to what had caused the pain, but it had been very apparent to her once she had recovered enough to have coherent thoughts.

Her recovery had taken weeks. She had lost too much blood too fast after she had Splinched her arm after Apparating in her weakened state and had been unable to properly heal herself. She had then resorted to calling her house elf, Pinky, before she had lost consciousness again.

Pinky had later explained to her that the force of the Stunner that Weasley had hit her with, combined with a second curse that had been meant to crush her heart inside her chest, had caused her body to go into shock and caused internal bleeding in her chest. And it had taken countless Blood Replenishing Potions and other healing spells for the internal bleeding to stop and for her heartbeat to return to a normal rhythm.

Fortunately enough and by some twist of fate, the second curse the red-haired hag had shot at her had actually hit her bird skull necklace, somewhat stopping the curse from completely fulfilling what it had been cast to do. Had it been any other item, the curse would’ve certainly shattered it and fully carried out its purpose, but this was no ordinary necklace: it was a Black family heirloom, gifted to her by Andromeda – her heart clenched – for her seventeenth birthday, which protected the wearer from lethal curses. She had never been more glad for keeping Andromeda’s gift after her elopement than the day realisation had dawned on her.

So, the heirloom had saved her life that day, but the curse had instead rendered her unconscious for hours and the necklace had dug into her skin, leaving a scar where the curse had hit it. And no matter how hard she had tried and how much research she had done, no spell or potion had been able to make the scar go away and she had resigned herself to living with it in the end, swearing to make Molly Weasley pay for it one day.

She shook her head and huffed, averting her gaze from the mirror; twelve years had passed since she had gotten the scar, but she still couldn’t bear to look at it for longer than a minute. She resented it.  
She supposed this was how Granger felt about the scar _she_ had carved onto her arm. There weren’t many things she regretted in her life, but what happened between her and Granger at Malfoy Manor was one of them.

Granger. Hermione.

She looked back at the mirror and smirked: aside from the scar, there were a number of tooth marks and hickeys on the exposed parts of her body, leaving purplish marks on her pale complexion as evidence of their activities. It wasn’t just one or two hickeys, basically her whole neck and upper part of her chest were covered in those love bites.

She brushed the tips of her fingers over the purple-red marks, feeling a warm and stinging sensation everytime her fingers hit one. She could still feel her witch’s lips sucking against her skin, and she bit her lip when her fingers traced the raised skin of her shoulder that the younger witch had held on to and scratched just a few hours ago. It had been somewhat painful, but she thrived on pain, so she had eagerly welcomed it, encouraged it even.

Who knew her little witch had it in her? No longer was she the young Gryffindor who would squirm under her stare and momentarily flinch whenever she got too close. No longer was she the young bushy-haired witch who would look away from her whenever she was about to say something that wouldn’t please her.

Whereas she had just entered young adulthood during the war, she was now truly a _woman_. She had actually grown a spine in the years following the Final Battle and wasn’t scared of standing up to her anymore. And she couldn’t say she was complaining. There was something rather enticing about knowing she had her way with the Minister for Magic, and in her office too.

She chuckled to herself as she left the bathroom, feeling lighter than she had a few moments ago. She took off her dressing gown, letting it pool on the floor like a dark puddle, and plopped down on her four-poster bed, settling under the covers and drawing them up to her waist. She lay staring at the ceiling for a while, thinking about how to best make sure that Granger would come. She would have no qualms about showing up in her Ministry office again if she had just said that to get rid of her.

She rolled onto her side and reached to her nightstand, opening the drawer and blindly reaching into it. She struggled for a few moments to find what she was looking for, her fingers brushing over folded sheets of parchment paper and random trinkets.

“Aha!” she exclaimed when the tips of her fingers finally found what she was looking for and grasped it.

She held her hand above her face and stared at the small golden coin with a sly smile.


	2. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after from Hermione's perspective and... it's not pretty. A bit of Romione too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I come with another chapter, and we're switching back to Hermione. The previous chapter is the only one so far that I've written from Bellatrix's pov, much of the story being told from Hermione's perspective, so let me know if you'd like to read more from Bellatrix's.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this chapter! As always, feedback is very much appreciated.

_Sometimes it catches when the fumes rise up  
among the throbbing lights of cars, or as  
you look away to dodge eye-contact with  
your own reflection in the carrige-glass;  
or in a waiting-room a face reminds you  
that the colour supplements have lied  
and some have pleasure and some pay the price.  
Then all the small securities you built  
about your house, your desk, your calendar  
are blown like straws; and momentarily,  
as if a scent of ivy or the earth  
had opened up a childhood door, you pause,  
to take the measure of what might have been  
against the kind of life you settled for._

The Price, Stuart Henson

Hermione slammed her hand against the headboard and threw her arm over her eyes as her hips shot up to press harder against the mouth that was giving her so much pleasure. Nails dug into her hips and pressed her downward to hold her still, and she gasped and trembled, her breath catching in her throat, when the tongue lapping up her juices circled her entrance and briefly delved inside before sliding back out.

She let out a breathy howl and her body practically thrashed when fingers were roughly pushed into her without any warning and the tongue was back to circling around her clit. She lowered her arm to dig her fingers into the soft dark curls that kept brushing against her inner thighs as the dark witch pleasured her.

Hermione closed her eyes, enjoying every moment as the older woman's mouth continued to do wondrous things to her. She gripped the headboard harder and arched her back, crying out when the raven-haired woman hummed against her wet center and curled her fingers inside of her. The sounds coming out of her mouth were completely against her will. It just felt so good, she felt like she was ascending.

She felt the telltale signs of her impending orgasm rising within her when the older witch let go of her hip and placed her hand on her breast, kneading and squeezing as she sucked the bundle of nerves between her legs. She bit her lip and tightened her grip on the woman’s hair, her breath coming in sharp gasps and grunts as she felt herself clench around her fingers. She was so close.

She threw her head back, further arching her back, and was about to soar into oblivion when she suddenly felt stubble scratching against her skin, and her fingers no longer gripped soft dark curls but short hair. Confusion washed over her.

She collapsed back onto the soft mattress, her orgasm slipping away from her. She slightly raised her head and looked down; her breath caught in her throat when her eyes landed on a head of red hair between the apex of her thighs. Wait what? What was happening?

“Ron?”

Hermione’s eyes snapped open. It took her a moment to realise where she was and to separate her dreams from reality. God, it had felt so real she swore she could feel the dark witch’s touch on her. Her head was throbbing, and every part of her body was sore; her groin was so tender she could hardly move her legs, her breasts ached, and even the satin covers abraded her bare nipples.

Wait… bare? It wasn’t until she looked down at herself that she realised where she was. She was in a bed, but she was naked. She frowned. Her thoughts were in disarray and she couldn’t quite make out the reason why she was naked in the first place. She hadn’t actually slept with Bellatrix, had she? A tremor went through her body at the thought, and she squeezed her thighs together.

Looking around, she realised she was in her room, recognising the mahogany furniture and the bookshelf in her line of sight. And it wasn’t until she registered the arm around her waist that she realised that someone was sleeping next to her. She gulped and fearfully lifted the blanket, looking down at herself and the pale arm holding her, and sighed upon realising it was just Ron.

She turned her head to the side; he was sound asleep, his mouth slightly open, jaw slacked to the side. And she could feel the heat radiating from his bare torso. Her brows knitted together. Had they…? It had been a while since the last time they had sex. A loud gasp escaped her lips as puzzles of memories from last night popped up in her head, and she was quick to cover her mouth with both hands when Ron stirred in his sleep.

She slowly removed his arm from her waist without waking him up and sat up in bed, holding the blanket close to her chest, and watched Ron for a few moments as he slept peacefully, completely oblivious to her inner turmoil. She sighed and looked around, taking in her surroundings.

Beams of light streaked through the curtains like tentative fingers seeking the meaning of things, casting an orange glow on the room. It had to be early morning. She turned her head to the left and glanced at the clock on the bedside table: it was half past six. She had an hour and a half to get ready. Most of the Ministry officials’ shift started at nine, but as Minister for Magic, she always showed up an hour early as she often had a lot of paperwork to take care of. And Ron usually woke up around seven, so it gave her thirty minutes of alone time to get her thoughts straight.

She let out a deep sigh and grabbed her wand from the bedside table, Accio’ing an oversized band t-shirt from the wardrobe. She quickly threw it over her head and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, intending to stand up but her head was spinning so she slumped over instead. She rested her elbows on her knees, her head in her hands, and waited for her head to stop spinning.

When it eventually did, she stretched out her arms and pushed herself up, now standing. She didn’t move for a moment as she swept the room with her eyes and she was momentarily left speechless: their clothes were scattered all around the floor. Last night’s events were a bit clearer in her head now, and her heart started beating faster inside her chest at the memory. She rubbed at her temples and hastily picked up her clothes from the floor and made her way out of the room into the bathroom.

She flicked on the light and her eyes burned from the brightness. She rubbed her eyes, taking out the sting, and threw last night’s clothes in the laundry basket. She raked a hand through her messy hair and went to splash some water on her face when she froze upon seeing her reflection in the mirror.

Most of her neck was covered in purplish bruises and there was also a bite mark on the side of her neck. Did Ron do this? After being with him for so many years, she perfectly knew what he was like in bed and while he did sometimes leave hickeys on her body when they had sex, he wasn’t usually a biter. This was very unlike him.

Were there any more marks she wasn’t aware of? She slowly lowered the neck of her t-shirt and audibly gasped when she saw that her upper chest was not only covered in more love bites but also tooth marks here and there, the most notable one being the one between the valley of her breasts.

“What the…” she muttered. She reached her hands under the hem of her t-shirt and lifted the garment over her shoulders, turning around slightly so she could see her back. She winced when her eyes settled on the crescent marks along her shoulder blades and a series of deep, angry red scratch marks running down the length of her back. No, this was definitely not Ron’s handiwork, not only because they were never rough like this but also because his nails were too short to leave such deep marks on her skin.

This could only mean one thing, but it couldn't be… It had just been a dream… right? She covered her body with her t-shirt again and turned back around so she faced the mirror. She gripped the ornate ledge around the sink, the surface feeling cool under her hands, and closed her eyes in an attempt to collect her thoughts, grasping at fleeting, vague memories.

Her thoughts were a jumbled mess of fragments of last night that she didn't seem to be able to hang on to long enough to process properly.

She remembered being in a daze after coming back home after a long day at the Ministry. She remembered feeling the sudden need to feel better – although the reason for it remained a bit fuzzy – upon seeing that Ron had waited up for her. She remembered kissing him and him hugging her close against him. She remembered everything speeding up after that as they ripped their clothes off each other with urgency and a rush of ecstasy, and tumbled down on their bed with her beneath him, lips locked in another kiss. She remembered his warm body pressing against hers, his lips trailing along her lips and face, and her own hands wandering up his torso, smooth collarbones, broad shoulders and down his back. She remembered the swell of his erection pressing against her as they moved together, and she remembered leaning her head back and holding onto his shoulders when he moved between her legs.

But those memories were intertwined with memories of plump limps kissing her senseless as she was pressed against a wall; of being trapped between a desk and a slender and more feminine body; of heavy-lidded eyes devouring her as she desperately clung to strong shoulders and begged for release; of crying out and throwing her head back when slender fingers curled inside of her; of a warm tongue licking and sucking the bundle of nerves between her thighs as fingers thrust into her at a relentless pace, feeling herself reach her orgasm for the second time; of caressing smooth and scarred skin for the first time; of marveling at the sheer beauty of the woman straddling her as she threw her head back, eyes fluttering in pleasure and luscious dark hair falling in waves over her body, contrasting with her pale skin; of feeling so smug and exhilarated when nails were painfully dug into her skin and words of encouragement were breathlessly whispered into her ear as the dark witch tumbled over the edge.

And she now distinctly remembered finding her own release with a high moan slipping from her throat and with those images in mind as Ron continued to thrust into her and was pulled over the abyss shortly after, grunting into her neck and spurting warm fluid inside of her.

Hermione gritted her teeth and shook her head, her knuckles turning white from how hard she was gripping the ledge now. She was practically shaking. She shook her head in confusion and denial. No, no, no she couldn’t have done this. She refused to believe she would do something like this to Ron. It just had to be a dream. A very realistic dream. But deep down she knew it wasn’t a logical and convincing explanation at all because all the bruises, scratches, and bite marks on her body were very much real and there was only one person she knew who could be passionate like this and whom she would let treat her body like this.

She raised her head and looked at herself in the mirror again. All the blood had completely drained from her face and she looked deathly pale. Her eyes lingered on the hickeys on her neck, especially the one under her jaw. She now had a very vivid memory of the older woman paying particular attention to that spot and she bit her bottom lip at the thought. How had Ron not noticed these? He would’ve definitely said something. Then she scoffed: of course he hadn’t seen them because she had cast a Glamour Charm over them before she left the Ministry and it had just now worn off.

 _Oh God, the Ministry_ , she thought. How could she have been so reckless?! Anyone could’ve caught them in the act, there was no guarantee she had been the only one to stay past working hours.

She could feel beads of sweat start to form, coalesce, and descend in rivulets down her back. Her breathing was also starting to get heavier as her turmoil kept growing. She looked away, not bearing to look at her reflection anymore, and her eyes landed on the laundry basket. She frowned and cocked her head to the side, intently staring at it for a moment as though it would give her all the answers that she needed.

Then, the fog clouding her mind seemed to lift and she suddenly rushed to the laundry basket and reached ino it, grabbing the shirt she had been wearing yesterday. She considered the white fabric for a few moments. Frankly, she didn’t know what she was doing or what she was expecting because at this point, she knew that whatever had happened last night was very much real and not a figment of her imagination, but a nagging voice inside her head kept telling her that this would be the final element to answer her doubts. So, she brought the shirt to her nose and sniffed.

And her entire world seemed to collapse on her in that moment. Her shirt quintessentially smelled of her and her perfume, licorice and star anise with some hints of vanilla, but it wasn’t the only smell, no. The shirt also slightly smelt of a mix of cinnamon and honey and her nose would’ve definitely not picked up on it if she wasn’t so familiar with it. The scent was very subtle but still clung to the shirt, and her head started to spin all over again.

Guilt flooded through her and it sat not on her chest but inside her brain. She knew she couldn’t undo what she had done. Technically though, she knew she could either obliviate herself or use one of the Time Turners she had come across at the Ministry, but she wasn’t sure she truly wanted to forget. Not when she now knew that Bellatrix wasn’t dead; she wasn’t sure she wanted to go back to how things had been before last night. She now knew what the older witch felt like under her hands, what she tasted like, and what she sounded like in the throes of passion after so many years and nights of dreaming and imagining it. And that was what made it all worse: if she went back in time, she knew she would do it again.

Ron didn’t deserve this. Despite the fact that their relationship had suffered a great deal in recent years, he didn’t deserve this. Nobody did. She had known Ron since she was but a child, they had literally grown up together and had gone through so much together. He was so kind, funny, and caring – and tactless at times, but she knew he didn’t mean to hurt her or anyone: it was just the way he was, and expressing his feelings often made him uncomfortable. He had been by her side and had comforted her as best as he could after the war even though he hadn’t known what was wrong exactly, and he hadn’t asked questions.

They knew each other so well even though he could be somewhat oblivious sometimes, but he was definitely not stupid. He definitely paid closer attention to people and things than what most people gave him credit for, and she knew he would definitely sense and see that something had happened, that something was amiss, that something had changed. Because yes, _everything_ had changed and _was_ going to change from now on. How could it not? The person she had thought was dead all those years ago was in fact very much alive and had unexpectedly shown back in her life, and she couldn’t ignore that. She just couldn’t.

Too many nights she had lain awake in bed, wracked with guilt and sorrow, wishing she had done something to prevent the dark witch’s ‘death’, anything. She had tried thinking of it rationally: the Order had honestly thought her evil at the time (and still did) and hadn’t known she had turned into a spy towards the end of the war, and a damn good one at that. But that had precisely been the problem, had it not? They hadn’t known (and still didn’t know), and she had blamed herself for so long for not telling the Order about their ‘alliance’ (if you could even call it that) because if she had, then maybe Molly wouldn’t have fired such a lethal curse at her. But all of that didn’t matter anymore now, did it? Bellatrix was alive, and it assuaged her guilt to know that, but what now?

Ron would definitely find out, if not now then at some point or another. And what then? What would she tell him? What would be her excuse? She was always so committed to every relationship in her life, so when had she become such a cruel person? When had she become so reckless? And since when did she let her emotions get the better of her? She was usually such a logical person, always weighing the pros and cons before doing something drastic. She prided herself on her logic.

But all logic and common sense seemed to fly out of the window whenever Bellatrix came into the picture. It always had, and twelve years hadn’t changed that in the slightest. She was still as affected by the raven-haired woman as she had been the first time the former Death Eater had come to her that night at Shell Cottage. And damn her for having that effect on her. Damn her for being aware of her attraction to her and using it however she pleased. Damn her for not making her aware of her survival sooner; they _, she_ wouldn’t be in this situation if she had. Damn her for being so infuriating.

“Fuck you, Bellatrix.” she muttered through gritted teeth as she threw her shirt back into the laundry basket and shut the lid with a snap.

She raked a hand through her tangled mess of a hair and looked at herself in the mirror one last time before throwing her t-shirt over her head, leaving it on the floor. She stepped into the bathtub and drew the curtains shut. She turned on the shower head and let the cold water run down her back for a moment, picturing it as life in liquid form, giving her the purpose and strength she needed. She dropped her forehead against the tiled wall and closed her eyes, trying to breathe normally, but all she could see was fleeting images of last night, fleeting images of her and Bellatrix in her Ministry office. And that did it: the dam broke.

She finally let the tears fall and they mixed with the water drops on her face as they flowed down her cheeks in rivulets. _Don’t think about it_ , she told herself, _don’t think about Bellatrix, or the way she made you feel._ She leaned back from the wall and bent down to turn the shower to the warmest setting, letting the hot water burn her skin and muffle her cries as she stood under the stream.

She reached for the pomegranate-scented body wash on the small shelf and poured some of it on her hands. Then, she began applying the gel on her body, furiously scrubbing at her skin to wash the feeling of the dark witch off her until her skin glowed an angry red, until the water stung every inch of her body. No matter where her hands went – her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, her stomach, her thighs – all she could feel was Bellatrix’s hands and lips as they trailed down her body, and that made heat pool in her belly and between her legs, which in turn made her cry harder because this wasn’t how she was supposed to feel.

“I hate you, I hate you.” she whimpered as she continued to lather her body with the body wash, watching as the water washed it away.

When it was time to wash her hair, she froze and found herself staring at the tiny bottle of shampoo with wide eyes. The shampoo she usually used smelt of almond with hints of honey and it didn’t bother her on most days, but now it held an entirely different meaning and she wasn’t sure she wanted to be confronted with the raven-haired witch’s scent again. And the sensation of her own fingers scraping at her scalp filled her with dread and anguish; it wouldn’t help at all.

The feeling was driving her crazy and she wasn’t sure what to do about it. Her heart began to thump hard against her ribs and she let herself drop down to the shower floor when she felt her legs weaken and she pulled her knees to her chest as the tears fell. She sat there, naked and crying, demonstrating exactly how she felt. The boiling hot water pelted her forehead, eyelids, cheeks, and lips. She wondered how many times she had already repeated this pattern – wake up, take a shower, cry, sink down, let the water cleanse her. It was all beginning to become too much for her to handle.

She could feel her pulse in her temples. She hung her head down and pressed her forehead into her knees and squeezed her shins. Her wet hair stuck to her skin and she let out a groan, perhaps as a way to transfer all the horrible, vile things inside of her out into the world, hoping something else would absorb them and take away her disgust, distress, and guilt. She cursed the day she had accepted the dark witch’s offer all those years ago at Shell Cottage. She cursed the day she had let her into her life. She hiccuped and pressed her forehead further into her knees, her shoulders shaking from the intensity of her sobs.

She didn’t know how long she sat under the shower head with the hot water running over her, but she was brought out of her thoughts when she heard a knock at the door. She lifted her head and strained her ears.

“Mione?”

Her insides turned cold and her heart clenched painfully in her chest when Ron’s gentle voice reached her ears. She let out a stuttering breath.

“Y-yes?” she coughed. “Yes?” she called back in a firmer voice.

“Are you okay? You’ve been in the shower for quite some time now.”

Hermione closed her eyes and silently cursed under her breath.

“Mione?”

“Yes, yes, I’m okay, Ron. I’ll be out in a minute, sorry.” she replied, standing up.

“Are you sure?”

Tears welled up in her eyes again, but she bit them back. “Yes, don’t worry. I just lost track of time.”

“Well, okay…” he didn’t sound convinced at all. “I’ll prepare breakfast then.”

“Sounds good!”

She heard his footsteps retreat down the hallway and braced herself against the tiled wall of the bathroom. That had been a close call.

She finally turned off the water and ringed out her hair so it wouldn’t drip. She then opened the curtain and moved through the fog, grabbing her bathrobe from the door and covering her naked body with it. Then, she walked over to the mirror and used the sleeve of her bathrobe to clear the mirror until she could see her face. She looked terrifying.

Her eyes were red from crying; there were red patches around her nose; her face was tear-streaked and awfully pale; her hair, which looked a darker shade of brown from being wet, hung limp around her face. She barely recognised herself.

Her mouth quivered with pain, and goosebumps danced across her skin as the steam slowly dissipated and the air in the bathroom cooled. She traced the bite mark on her neck with one finger and watched as her reflection in the mirror did the same.

Finally, she forced her gaze away from her unfamiliar self and walked to the door. She was about to open it when she stopped. She needed to cover the marks first. She franctically looked around the bathroom for her wand, but she suddenly remembered she had left it in the bedroom.

Shit!

She covered her neck as best as she could with her hair and held the bathrobe close to her body, tying the knot tightly around her waist. She pressed the side of her face to the door and strained her ears, trying to determine if Ron was still around. She slightly opened the door and peeked through the crack: the hallway was empty, and no sound came from their bedroom. She waited for a beat or two and finally moved when she heard the sound of pots and pans downstairs, making a beeline for their room.

She closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a second, breathing a sigh of relief. _So far so good._ She quickly scanned the room again and rushed to the bedside table on her side of the bed when her eyes landed on her wand. She quickly snatched it off and cursed again when she saw the time: it was thirty-five past seven. No wonder Ron had been worried.

She flicked her wand at the wardrobe, and a black blouse, a grey plaid suit, and a set of black underwear came flying out of it and rested on the now made bed. She needed to hurry, not only because she was going to be late but also because she didn’t want Ron to come back and check on her again because she was taking too long. So, she let the bathrobe slip off her body and hastily dressed, this time taking great care to cast a Glamour Charm that would last longer on her body.

Once she was dressed, she walked over to her vanity; she pulled her hair into a bun and secured it with two hairpins, letting strands of hair fall out around her face. She applied some concealer under her eyes, blending it out, before brushing her lips with red lipstick. She was determined to present as cheerful for Ron. When she was done, she looked at herself in the mirror to make sure that everything was covered and that she looked, at least, decent, and then left the room.

The smell of scrambled eggs and buttered toast wafted in the air when she came downstairs and reached the kitchen. Ron had his back to her, and she leaned against the doorframe as she watched him cook something on the stove, his clumsy movements captivating her for a moment. Ron wasn’t exactly a great cook, but he tried, and that made her smile, washing away all her negative thoughts for a moment. She could hear the sizzles and smell the irresistible aroma of sausages cooking, and as if on cue, her stomach rumbled. She now realised she hadn’t eaten dinner last night and she could feel her cheeks flushing when Ron looked at her over his shoulder and smiled at her.

“Someone’s hungry.” he said as he motioned for her to take a seat.

“Good morning to you too, _Ronald_.” she returned with a small smile and sat at the table as Ron placed a plate of scrambled eggs with buttered toast and a glass of orange juice in front of her before returning to the stove.

“Thank you, Ron.” she muttered, her stomach grumbling once again as her nose was infiltrated by the food’s delectable aroma. She picked up a piece of toast and took a bite just as Ron came back with a plate of his own, his including sausages, and sat down next to her. She sprinkled some salt over her eggs and took a mouthful, humming in content. “This is good, Ron.”

She watched as his lips stretched into a wide smile, and her heart clenched. There was that smile that had brought her so much comfort all those years ago, the one that had told her everything would be fine and that she would be fine. Her stomach twisted and she pushed the queasy feeling away; she would try to enjoy her breakfast with Ron. She didn’t want to ruin things.

“I’m glad you like it, Mione.” he replied as he tore into the sausages on his plate. She watched him for a moment and then focused back on her own plate.

They ate in silence and when they were finished, she took their plates to the sink and cast a charm to have the dishes wash themselves. She checked her watch: it was ten to eight. She would have to Floo to the Ministry in a few minutes.

She turned around and started when she saw Ron standing a few feet from her. He was looking at her curiously and a feeling a dread washed over her. Why was he looking at her like that? Had she forgotten to cover up something? Did he suspect something?

“Are you really okay, Mione?”

Her brows furrowed in confusion and her eyes darted across his face. Why did he keep asking if she was okay? Was it that obvious?

“Yes, Ron. Why do you ask?” she eventually said.

“I don’t know, Mione… You’ve been awfully quiet this morning. Did something upset you at the Ministry yesterday?”

Her shoulders tensed a little, but she tried not to show it. _Oh, Ron…_ She leaned against the counter and rested her hands behind her back, gripping the flat surface tightly.

“No, Ron. Nothing happened. I’m just a little bit tired. Honestly, don’t worry about it.” She tried to smile but it didn’t quite reach her eyes, and she could clearly see Ron’s confusion on his face.

“Another nightmare?” he asked.

“Yes… something like that.” she looked at him warily. He knew she didn’t like to talk about that.

They looked at each other in silence for a moment and he eventually got the hint and smiled at her in a reassuring way. This was a sign he would leave it alone, and she had never been so grateful before that he had decided not to push for more. She looked at her watch again; she really needed to get a move on.

She looked back at Ron and took one step towards him. She stood on tiptoes and kissed him softly on the lips, her hands resting on his broad shoulders. She felt his arms encircle her waist as he returned the kiss, and it felt so, so wrong to kiss him with hidden hickeys, bitemarks, and scratches on her body but she tried to ignore the guilt as he hugged her close, his warmth enveloping her.

When they broke for air, Ron lightly caressed her cheek and smiled at her. The gesture was too much for her and she could feel her heart breaking in her chest; she knew if she stayed any longer, she would burst into tears and she tried to push the feeling away.

She cleared her throat. “I really need to go, Ron.” she said softly.

He nodded and took a step back. “Alright. Don’t overwork yourself, Mione.”

“I won’t…” Her eyes met his. “I love you.” she whispered. The words felt… so wrong on her lips now. They felt like a lie and left a bitter taste in her mouth.

“I love you too, Mione. See you tonight.”

She nodded and walked past him, quickly heading for the living room, grabbing her bag and a coat on the way, throwing it over her arm.

She grabbed a fistful of Floo Powder and stepped into the fireplace.

“Ministry of Magic!”

And she disappeared in a burst of green flames.


	3. Hard Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part of Hermione's day at the Ministry, more of her confusion and guilt, and lunch with Ginny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos! 
> 
> Split Hermione's day at the Ministry into two parts because it was too long. Also, sorry if it feels like it's moving a bit slow but I'm trying to do things right and really capture Hermione's turmoil. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy this chapter! As always, comments are every much appreciated. And I'm open to suggestions if you have any.

_This being human is a guest house.  
Every morning a new arrival._

_A joy, a depression, a meanness,  
some momentary awareness comes  
as an unexpected visitor._

_Welcome and entertain them all!  
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,  
who violently sweep your house  
empty of its furniture,  
still, treat each guest honorably.  
He may be clearing you out  
for some new delight._

_The dark thought, the shame, the malice,  
meet them at the door laughing,  
and invite them in._

_Be grateful for whoever comes,_  
because each has been sent  
as a guide from beyond.

The Guest House, Rumi

Hermione entered her office and stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of her desk. The scene of her indiscretion, if one could even call it that. Her momentary lapse in good judgment.

Books, transcripts, and files were scattered across the floor, and papers were everywhere. She had been in such a state of rush and panic last night that she hadn’t taken the time to straighten it all up, and she cursed under her breath for not doing so because memories of last night were now threatening to overwhelm her and invade her mind again despite her best efforts to fight them off. She wasn’t one to curse very often but since last night she had found plenty of reasons to, and if there was ever a time cursing would be acceptable it was definitely right now. Bellatrix just brought out the worst version of her; she always had.

She hung her coat on the rack and set her bag on the chair opposite her desk. She walked around it and crouched down to pick up the various items sprawled across the floor and to rearrange the Wizengamot court transcripts and reports. But on second thought, she took out her wand from its holster and cast a quick charm to put everything into place. She didn’t need to look at her mostly empty desk and her things on the floor any longer to remember what Bellatrix had done to her there.

If she thought hard enough, she could still feel the edge of her desk painfully digging into her lower back as the dark witch had pressed her against it and refused to let her go. She closed her eyes and sighed. It also didn’t help that Bellatrix’s scent lingered in the air despite the few hours that had passed. _God_ , she thought as she flicked her wand once more to clear the air in her office, _that woman is the bane of my existence._

It was true. It was so like Bellatrix to leave an impression, whether it be good or bad, on the lives of anyone she ever met and make sure they would never forget her. First, leaving bruises and scratch marks on the most obvious and exposed parts of her body, almost as though she wanted Ron to see them and know she didn’t belong to him, then messing up her office, and finally her scent. It was like she had been brought into this world to put Hermione in the most awkward and terrible of situations. It was like she took great pleasure in messing up with her mind. And of course she did; it was just the way she was, and she _was_ sadistic after all. Everyone knew that, and she frequently saw to it that people didn’t forget. Twelve years hadn’t changed that in the least.

Twelve years… Where had she been all this time? What had she been doing? And most importantly, how did she survive? She was sure Molly’s curse had been lethal, so how did she even survive that and manage to escape without anyone noticing? The bodies of the Death Eaters had been disposed of the morning after the Final Battle and she remembered very clearly watching Bellatrix’s body being carried away. So, did the dark witch transmute her body with someone else’s? If so, how? She doubted she had access to Polyjuice Potion at the time; so, did she get outside help? Had it even been Bellatrix herself she had clung to hours after the Battle or had it been someone else disguised as her? Had she already escaped when she snuck into the Great Hall that night?

And why had she waited so long to reveal herself? Why not reveal herself to her a few months, or even a year or two after the war? Why wait twelve years? If what the dark witch had said last night was true, she had been keeping an eye on her, so surely she had known and had seen how affected she had been by her “death” and how she had struggled to pull herself together and build a new life for herself. Was she truly that uncaring or had she simply seen her with Ron and misjudged the entire situation? The fact that she was in a relationship with him had seemed to work her up so much last night.

Hermione sighed and stood up, rubbing her temples. So much had been left unsaid between them and after last night, she had so many questions. She would get to the bottom of this.

She pulled out her chair and sat down.

Would Narcissa Malfoy know anything? Her and Draco were pardoned for their crimes after Voldemort’s defeat and weren’t sentenced to Azkaban; Narcissa’s unconditional love for Draco had saved Harry’s life in the Forbidden Forest and Draco had also saved his life in a way at Malfoy Manor when he had refused to tell Bellatrix it was indeed Harry that the Snatchers had captured, so he had vouched for both of them. The same couldn’t be said for Lucius Malfoy, however; while Draco and Narcissa were more innocent than the Malfoy patriarch, he had still played a very active part in the war, so he had served a stint in Azkaban. He had since been released, but he was now on house arrest and his wand had been taken away from him.

Despite their many clashes when they were students, her and Draco had formed a tentative friendship after the war and so, her and Narcissa were cordial to each other. But she couldn’t very well show up at Malfoy Manor and ask Narcissa if she had heard of her “dead” elder sister in recent years. It would just raise too many suspicions. And would Bellatrix even have gone there in the first place? It would just have been too obvious.

Andromeda Tonks, then? She frequently saw her as Harry was Teddy’s godfather and she had often babysat Teddy herself, so she could confidently say her and Andromeda were friends. And Andromeda was an accomplished Healer, so she could’ve healed any injuries that Bellatrix might have had at the time. Again, there was a slight problem: Andromeda and Bellatrix had been estranged for decades; they hadn’t spoken to each other since Andromeda graduated from Hogwarts. But, would Bellatrix have gone to her place as a last resort? Bellatrix was unpredictable, so she wouldn’t put it past her to show up at her estranged sister’s house after the Battle just like she had shown up in her office last night after so many years. But would Andromeda have welcomed her back and hidden her after everything Bellatrix had done? She seriously doubted it.

She groaned and hit her forehead on her desk in frustration. “Pull yourself together, Hermione,” she muttered to herself, “you can’t spend your day thinking about her, you have work to do.”

She flicked her wand at her bag and a thick file sprung from inside it and into her hands. It was the file that Harry had given to her the night before. For obvious reasons, she hadn’t paid that much attention to its contents last night, so she would get started on that; she had also scheduled a meeting with Harry in the afternoon, so she also wanted to get it out of the way because she knew that whatever was in it would be tough and would most likely trigger old traumas and memories. The war was still a very touchy subject for them even after so many years.

So, she dug into work, feeling very mature for doing so. The information was very detailed; from Voldemort’s rise to power and him gathering Death Eaters across the country to the First War, the Second War, and the various acts of terrorism that the Death Eaters carried out through the year. She took off her blazer and draped it on the chair as she continued reading and underlined, circled, and highlighted some important bits that she wanted to talk to Harry about later on.

She had been reading for a few hours when she flipped the sheet of paper, setting it aside, and froze. A black and white picture of Bellatrix was staring at her. Her wanted poster. Her dark eyes stared right through her and although she had seen the poster many times, she felt a weird tingle run up and down her spine. Did she want to go over this part? She was well aware of her involvement in both wars and the crimes she had committed. Did she want to be reminded of the severity of the situation she found herself in?

She sighed and set the poster aside, focusing on the information that had been scribbled hastily. She didn’t recognise the scrawly handwriting, so she concluded that Harry hadn’t been the one to work on this one. It seemed that despite all the years that had passed, Harry still harboured a lot of hatred for the dark witch and couldn’t stand anything that had to do with her, so much so that he couldn’t even bring himself to compile all the information that they had on her. But she couldn’t blame him, could she? Bellatrix had killed Sirius, Harry’s only family, after all.

Her heart painfully constricted in her chest and her stomach twisted into a knot, clearly responding to her growing guilt and stress. Oh God, what would he think if he knew about her and Bellatrix? If he knew the witch who had murdered his godfather had been the reason she had been so upset and shaken after the war? If he knew she had been the one she had shed tears for all those years ago? He would never forgive her.

She shook her head fervently to banish those thoughts. This wasn’t the time nor the place to be thinking about such things. She had known the file would mention Bellatrix’s involvement in the war – how could it not? She had been Voldemort’s right hand – but she couldn’t keep on letting herself get distracted or else she wouldn’t get anything done today and that would just be too suspicious. She was still as hardworking as she had been when she was a student, and everyone knew she only slacked when something was troubling her.

She moved her neck from side to side and straightened her shoulders. She chewed at her pen – she didn’t use quills anymore – and huffed. “Let’s get this over with,” she muttered and finally focused on the words.

**_Personal information_ **

_Name: Bellatrix_

_Last name: Lestrange (née Black)_

_Born: 11/06/1951_

_Died: 02/05/1998 (age 46), Hogwarts Castle_

_Cause of death: Died in battle, unknown curse_

_Blood status: Pureblood_

**_Family information_ **

_Father: Cygnus Black (1928-1992)_

_Mother: Druella Black (née Rosier, 1932-1995)_

_Siblings: Andromeda Tonks (13/03/1953); Narcissa Malfoy (20/11/1955)_

_Husband: Rodolphus Lestrange (12/04/1950 – 12/08/1998)_

_Cousins: Sirius Black (03/11/1959 – 18/06/1996); Regulus Arcturus Black (22/12/1961 – 19/07/1979)_

_Nephew: Draco Malfoy (05/06/1980)_

_Niece: Nymphadora Tonks (20/01/1973 – 02/05/1998)_

**_Physical information_ **

_Gender: Female_

_Hair colour: Black_

_Eye colour: Black_

_Skin colour: Pale_

_Height: 5’ 2”_

(Hermione frowned. _Her eyes aren’t black, they’re brown_ , she thought and scoffed.)

**_Affiliation_ **

_House: Slytherin (1962-1969)_

_Loyalty: House of Black, Lord Voldemort, Death Eaters_

**_Magical Characteristics_ **

_Wand: Walnut, 12 ¾”, dragon heartstring, unyielding_

_Skills: Dark Arts, Legilimency/Occlumency, Duelling, Transfiguration, Flying_

_Signature Spell: Cruciatus Curse_

**_Involvement in War_ **

_ First Wizarding War _

_Very little information on involvement_

_Known crime: Torture of Alice and Frank Longbottom by means of the Cruciatus Curse in 1981_

_Life imprisonment in Azkaban_

_ Second Wizarding War _

_Known crimes:_

  * _January 1996: Escape from Azkaban – fugitive_
  * _18 June, 1996: Battle of the Department of Mysteries – victims: Neville Longbottom (Cruciatus Curse), Nymphadora Tonks (grave injuries), Sirius Black (murder)_
  * _30 June, 1997: Battle of the Astronomy Tower – assault at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_
  * _27 July, 1997: Battle of the Seven Potters_
  * _March 1998: Torture of Hermione Jean Granger; murder of house-elf Dobby at Malfoy Manor_
  * _2 May, 1998: Battle of Hogwarts – murder of Nymphadora Tonks_



“Oh, what a load of rubbish!” Hermione huffed. Bellatrix hadn’t been the one to kill Tonks; true, they had duelled, but Bellatrix hadn’t fought to kill, mainly because of the promise she had made her but also because she was Andromeda’s daughter and as much as she acted like she didn’t, she still cared for her sister. No, Bellatrix hadn’t killed Nymphadora; duelling her had been a way to distract the Auror and keep her out of harm’s way, but unfortunately another Death Eater had caught Tonks off guard and Bellatrix had been unable to do anything. Hermione had seen it all unfold and had even seen the brief horror in the dark witch’s eyes before it was quickly covered up with indifference to save face.

Hermione’s hand twitched and she gripped her pen tightly. She didn’t need to read the next part to know what it was about: it just mentioned her “death” and that was it. She had half a mind to add in the dark witch’s contributions to the “good” side towards the end of the war. It wasn’t fair, it just wasn’t fair that no one, besides Professor McGonagall, knew about what Bellatrix had done, but she couldn’t blame anyone but herself. It was her fault no one knew; she had been too cowardly to say anything after the war because she had been scared everyone would turn their backs on her, and she still was. _How Gryffindor of you_ , a little voice in her head said. She gritted her teeth.

The sound of something breaking and a sudden stinging sensation on her hand distracted her thoughts and she looked down. She had been gripping her pen so hard that it had shattered in her hand; the plastic tore at her skin, causing her hand to bleed.

She stared blankly at her bleeding hand for a moment, the blood flowing freely from the cuts and mixing with the black ink.

“Shit,” she cursed under her breath when the droplets of blood dripped from her fingers onto the sheets of paper on her desk, the parchment soaking up the crimson liquid.

She gripped her wand in her left hand and flicked it at the papers first, clearing the ink and blood from them, then at her hand. She watched as the blood stopped flowing and the skin of her fingers and palm knitted back together. The cuts sealed and were reduced to thin red lines. Another second passed, and they were gone altogether.

She sighed and put the papers back into the file and closed it. There were a few pages left but she had read enough for now and she knew she wouldn’t be able to focus now. She looked at the clock on the wall: it was half past eleven. Great. She could leave now: she had promised Ginny they would have lunch together.

She stood up from her chair and took her coat from the rack by the office door. She smoothed her shirt and ran her hands down the legs of her trousers and put her coat on. She took her bag from the chair she had left it on and rummaged through it, looking for her wallet. She always left her bag in her office, preferring not to take it with her when she wen out for lunch.

Her fingers suddenly grazed something cold and she frowned. It was cold and metal-like, and the more she touched it, the more curious she got. She took it between her fingers and removed her hand from her bag.

Her eyes widened when she saw what it was. It was a gold coin. A Galleon. But not just any Galleon, no. It was the one she had used all those years ago to communicate with Bellatrix. She knew it was the one because the edges of the coin were slightly rusty, a sign of all the time that had passed.

She had kept it after the war and hadn’t been able to get herself to throw it away because it had been the only thing that reminded her of Bellatrix besides her wand, which was now locked away somewhere in the Ministry.

She had always carried the golden coin with her for many years, foolishly thinking and hoping that it would grow hot again one day, and she would find a message from Bellatrix telling her where and when they could meet. She had eventually given up when nothing happened, and it had all become a distant memory. She had forgotten about the existence of the coin up until now and she couldn’t remember how it had even found its way back into her bag.

Now that she knew Bellatrix was alive, she wondered if she had kept the coin too or if she had simply gotten rid of it. The last time they had contacted each other using the coins was shortly before the Battle of Hogwarts, so she wouldn’t blame her if she had.

Curious, she slightly turned the coin in her hand and looked at it more closely, and almost dropped it as she audibly gasped. Where there should have been a serial number around the edge of the coin, there was now a series of letters and numbers that read: _6:30 BM – BB_. 

She didn’t know what was the most surprising and infuriating here: the fact that Bellatrix had kept the coin all this time or the fact that she was only now using it when she had once spent so much time staring at the coin, waiting for a potential sign.

“6:30” could only mean in the evening; “BM”, Black Manor; “BB”, Bellatrix Black.

She was using her maiden name again, which wasn’t surprising at all. Rodolphus’s death meant that their marriage – she bristled at the thought – was nullified, which also meant that Bellatrix would be the head of the Black family now as she was the only surviving member besides Narcissa, but she was bound through marriage to the Malfoy family. And Andromeda had been disowned so she wasn’t legally considered a Black anymore unless Bellatrix, as head of the family, decided to remove the curse which had been used to blast off her name from the family tapestry and reinstate her into the family.

She shook her head. This changed a lot of things, but now wasn’t the time to consider such things. She was getting ahead of herself; they had a long way to go before she even considered getting Bellatrix and Andromeda to reconcile.

Hell, she wasn’t even sure if she would meet Bellatrix at Black Manor. She did want answers, but she wasn’t sure Bellatrix would be forthcoming – when had she ever been really? – and she didn’t want a repeat of last night. She really didn’t. The first time had been a mistake; she had already lied to Ron once, but if she repeated the same mistake twice, then it would just create a vicious circle she wouldn’t be able to escape from.

She rolled her shoulders in a few jerky motions and pushed her hair back in fitful little gestures. She had to get out or she was going to lose her mind. She looked at the clock: a quarter to noon. She had a little less than seven hours to really think about it. She huffed; Bellatrix really had the worst timing ever.

She carelessly threw the coin back into her bag, grabbed her wallet, stuffing it in the pocket of her coat, and hastily left her office, making sure to magically seal the room so no one would be able to enter it while she was on her lunch break.  
  


***

Hermione honestly had no idea how she left the Ministry and went into the Muggle world. She was in a bit of a daze; it was drizzling, and her hair and clothes were getting damp, but she was in deep thought – head hung low, brows furrowed, and hands in her pockets – as she walked along the cobbled streets in the direction of the restaurant her and Ginny usually met at.

Only one thought occupied her mind: that of meeting Bellatrix. She didn’t know if she should meet her, nothing good would come out of it; she was sure of it. But really, it was her fault for suggesting it in the first place. Of course Bellatrix would jump at the chance and wouldn’t let her go back on her word so easily. She knew if she failed to show up today, the older witch would find another way to see her again. She knew she would; she was a Slytherin through and through. For some reason, she had decided to come back into her life, and it didn’t feel like she would leave so easily again.

She shook her head clear of thoughts of Bellatrix before they became too much to handle and raked a hand through her damp curls. In a haze, she bumped into a few people, muttering apologies under her breath as some of them cursed and grumbled, “Oi, watch where you’re going!”. She looked up to see how close she was to her destination and picked up her pace; the restaurant was only a few blocks away.

The restaurant was in a remote, less crowded and more chilled out area of London, not too far away from the Ministry but not too close either. It was nestled in an alleyway where no one passed by and it was a little difficult to spot as there were no signs on the main street, but that had been precisely the reason she had chosen it.

She couldn’t really go anywhere in the wizarding world without cameras flashing at her, something that made her extremely anxious; she had never really enjoyed the fame that came with being Harry Potter’s best friend – that had been more Ron’s thing after the end of the war – and being now Minister for Magic didn’t make things any better, so the Muggle world and this restaurant in particular were her escape, giving her much needed respite.

Her thoughts came to a halt when she stopped in front of the restaurant. She took in a sharp breath, gathering the last of her composure, before pushing the door.

To say that the place was merely busy would be the understatement of the year; it was loud and crowded almost to capacity.

She looked around at the busy tables. A young couple was eating, one glass of wine each, studiously bent over their meals as they talked; a group of young men who looked to be in their late twenties throwing their heads back with helpless giggles; a stern-looking woman with grey hair lunching alone looking on and frowning at them; a family and their children; tourists trying to decipher the menu. The level of noise was high, but it didn’t bother her; she was used to it.

The lunchtime rush was upon the restaurant and the waitresses and waiters looked about as frazzled as she felt, but at least they managed to hold a smile and a professional attitude as they went from table to table, taking orders, delivering food and drinks.

A waitress appeared in front of her and flashed a pearly white smile at Hermione upon seeing her. She came here so often that by now, she was well-acquainted with the waitress, a young woman in her early twenties named Daisy. “How are you, Daisy? How’s school?” she asked, flashing her a friendly smile.

Daisy was a law student at King’s College and worked part-time at the restaurant to pay for her studies, school supplies or other spendings so she didn’t have to rely on her parents. She was the eldest of three and her parents weren’t too well-off, and Hermione always made sure to tip a huge amount just to help her out.

“It’s going great, thank you,” she replied with a tired smile, “I’m just glad it’s the weekend tonight. You?”

“I’m okay, Daisy, thank you. Is Ginny here yet?”

“Yes, Mrs Potter arrived shortly before you. I saved you your usual table.” she said, gesturing at a table at the end of the third row at the back of the restaurant where she could now see a familiar head of long red hair. “Is that okay, Miss Granger?”

“Yes, that’s perfect. Thank you, Daisy,” she nodded, “and please call me Hermione.” she said with a kind smile that the young woman returned, her cheeks turning red, before she nodded and rushed off to help one of the waiters.

The location of the table was perfect: in the corner, slightly isolated, and not too far from the window. It was the perfect seat to have a view of passers-by, and when the weather wasn’t rainy and grim like it was today, rays of sunshine poured into the window and onto the table, keeping them warm and comfortable while they ate and chatted.

Ginny turned her head just as Hermione reached their table, and a wide grin spread across her features as she stood up to give her a quick hug.

“There you are! I’ve missed you!”

“Gin, we saw each other last week.” Hermione said light-heartedly as she returned the hug.

“So? I can’t miss my best friend?” Ginny huffed in mock offence as she sat back down at the table and she followed suit.

“I didn’t say that,” she chuckled and picked up the menu, “Weren’t you supposed to bring Albus today? Where is he?”

“Ah, the cheeky little bugger got into a food fight with James this morning so they’re both grounded,” the red-haired witch groaned as she looked at her own menu, “They’re spending the day with mom.”

Hermione snickered behind her menu. “Are you sure that’s really punishment, Gin? Spending the day at the Burrow?”

“You know she abhors food fights,” Ginny chuckled as she snapped her menu shut, “she had her fair share of them with Fred and George.”

There was a hint of sadness in her voice at the mention of Fred’s name. Hermione slightly lowered her menu and worriedly looked at her. No matter how many years had passed, his death was still a touchy subject for them, and she knew Ginny still missed him a lot. But she just smiled to let her know she was okay and carried on.

“She’ll probably lecture them on the importance of not wasting food and will force them to eat their veggies”, she said with amusement, “Besides, I’d rather they drive her crazy than me. Honestly, both of them are such little shits.”

Hermione barked out a laugh and set her menu down on the table. “I have to admit they’re a handful.” She still remembered the day they had scribbled all over her copy of _Hogwarts: A History_. And the day they had broken her favourite mug. “But what were you expecting? Harry inherited the troublemaker genes from his dad and he’s now passed them down to them.”

“I dread to think what mischief they will be up to when they go to Hogwarts.”

“They’ll probably lose more House points and break more school rules than we did,” she sniggered, and Ginny groaned, “Good luck dealing with McGonagall when that happens.”

“Oi, don’t take the piss!” she laughed. “You and Ron’s kids will probably be even worse!”

Ginny didn’t notice how Hermione’s smile slightly faltered at her comment because the waiter came to take their orders at that moment.

Ginny ordered lasagna and a glass of red wine while she went for a glass of white wine and a salad and a piece of quich that she now knew she would never finish; Ginny’s comment about having kids with Ron had her stomach plummet into an imaginary well and she felt a bit sick, not hungry anymore.

She cleared her throat when the waiter left. “So, how’s work going?” she asked to keep her mind clear and her thoughts from wandering into uncharted territory.

Ginny had secured a position within the Holyhead Harpies after leaving Hogwarts and had played as Chaser, becoming one of the team’s star players and gaining even more popularity, but she had taken a break after only a few years of being in the team when she had first been pregnant with James, and had eventually retired to raise a family with Harry. She now worked as a correspondant for the _Daily Prophet_ and had recently become the senior Quidditch correspondent.

“Ugh,” Ginny groaned, “Don’t ask,” at Hermione’s questioning look, “The department has been in a frenzy over the Quidditch World Cup. There’s so much work to do.”

Ah, right. The Quidditch World Cup. She listened thoughtfully as Ginny went into a lengthy recounting of the latest matches and results. Apparently, the Holyhead Harpies were in the lead again and were predicted to go to the quarter-final and semi-final, and as Minister for Magic, she would have to attend if they were qualified for the final. She internally groaned; she still wasn’t a huge Quidditch fan.

She smiled at the pride she detected on Ginny’s face and in her voice as she talked about the Holyhead Harpies.

“Do you miss it sometimes?” Hermione asked in a soft voice.

“Playing Quidditch?”

She nodded.

Ginny sighed. “Yes, sometimes I wish I was still part of the team,” she said with a small smile, “but it wouldn’t feel right leaving the kids at home with Harry while I travelled around the world, you know.”

Hermione hummed and nodded.

After fifteen minutes of casual conversation, the waiter came back with their orders. He set them down in front of them and left to tend to another table after wishing them a nice meal.

“I’ve been so hungry all morning.” Ginny said and immediately dug into her meal. “Oh, this is so good.” she moaned.

Hermione chuckled and bit into a piece of quiche, chewing thoughtfully. Even though she complained about them a lot, she could tell that Ginny loved her kids more than anything in the world from the way her eyes sparkled. And that just made her wonder if she wanted to start a family of her own.

She was 31 and she had been in a relationship with Ron for over ten years, so naturally, she knew that people expected them to have kids and found it odd that they hadn’t yet. But did she want to have kids? Of course she did; it would be nice. But did she want to have kids with Ron? When she thought of having kids, she didn’t, she almost never envisioned freckled, red-haired kids running around the house; no, on the rare occasions that she entertained the idea of having kids, she imagined…

…kids with wavy brown hair and dark brown eyes and pale skin; kids with curly dark hair and freckles on slightly tan skin.

Hermione gulped and almost choked when her food went down the wrong way. Ginny looked at her in alarm as her fork clattered against the ceramic of her plate and she reached for her glass of wine, taking a sip or two.

“Oh my god, are you okay, Mione?”

“Yes,” she coughed out, “Don’t worry, Gin. Just swallowed too soon.”

The red-haired witch shook her head and rolled her eyes jokingly before they resumed eating in comfortable silence. Or at least, Ginny did; Hermione just pushed her food around and stared at her plate in deep thought.

She couldn’t see herself having kids with Ron, but she could imagine herself having them with… She clenched her jaw and anxiously tapped her fingers on the table’s polished oak surface. She reached for her glass of wine again and swallowed as much as she could, reveling in the warmth it left inside her; she needed the liquid distraction. But try as she may, she couldn’t help but let her mind wander into dangerous territory; couldn’t stop from inserting herself into an alternate universe where things could’ve been so much more different.

If she had come clean to the Order, if Bellatrix hadn’t faked her death for years, if she had managed to secure her pardon, would they have been living together? Would they have had mini Hermiones and Bellatrixes running around the house, screaming like banshees? Would Bellatrix even be the type to settle down with someone? Did she even harbour the same feelings for her? Had she ever?

She frowned. It was best not to lose herself in what could’ve been. It was over. It was done. That chapter in her life was finished. She couldn’t change the past nor could she predict the future. She was okay. Everything was _fine_. She was _happy._

And there she was, lying to herself again. It was such an easy coping mechanism. Deceit was always better than dealing with the reality of the situation.

“Hermione?”

She looked up and realised Ginny had been talking to her.

“Oh, uh… sorry,” she cleared her voice, “what were you saying?”

“I was asking you how things are going at the Ministry, but it doesn’t matter,” she looked at her warily, “are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Hermione sighed. First Ron, now Ginny. “I’m okay, Gin. Just a little bit tired,” she lied, “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Oh?” That piqued Ginny’s interest. “Did you stay up working late again? Honestly Mione, you’re as much of a bookworm as you were when we were still students,” she huffed, “and I don’t mean this as a compliment.” She smirked.

Hermione smiled and looked away, and Ginny’s smirk slowly dropped.

“Was my brother an arse again? Did the git say something?” Ginny suddenly asked with underlying anger in her voice.

When Hermione looked back at her, her brows were pinched tightly, and her lips drawn into a flat line. Ginny was well aware of her issues with Ron; she had confided in her once after a particularly bad argument they had, and it had taken everything in her to prevent the youngest Weasley from hexing him into oblivion.

She shook her head. “No, Gin,” she put her hand on the younger woman’s to let her know she appreciated the feeling, “he was actually very pleasant this morning. He made breakfast.”

“What? Well, fuck me sideways!” she exclaimed. Daisy stopped mid-step as she was carrying a stack of plates and a few diners from various tables nearby regarded them with wide eyes and amusement.

“Ginny!”

“What? What’s next? Albus eating his veggies?” she joked. “What’s gotten into him?”

“Give your brother some credit,” she chortled, “he can be sweet sometimes.”

“That, he can be,” Ginny started and then smirked saucily, “The only time a man is ever ‘sweet’ like this is when he’s been sated.”

Hermione’s eyes widened and she could feel heat rising in her face. Sex wasn’t a comfortable subject for her, it never had been, and it was even more uncomfortable now that… _No_ , she told herself, _stop it_.

Ginny’s smirk only widened at Hermione’s reaction and she wiggled her eyebrows. “I knew it!” she exclaimed once again. “That explains why he was so grumpy the other day when he came around!”

“Honestly, Gin…” Hermione mumbled with embarrassment.

“What? Sometimes, all you need is a romp in the sheets, you know.” Ginny went on, acting as though she didn’t notice how flustered Hermione was getting.

“Do you ever stop?!” she whisper-yelled. She was sure her face was as red as Ginny’s hair at this point.

The red-haired woman guffawed, throwing her head back and placing her hand on her chest.

“Honestly, Mione, you’re so easy to work up!” Ginny laughed, drying the tears that had gathered at the corners of her eyes. “Relax, you prude!”

Hermione took another sip of her wine. “You’re unbelievable,” she said shaking her head, “Do you really want to talk about your brother like this?” she teased in spite of herself.

Ginny scrunched her nose. “Fine, you win,” she relented, “you’re right: I don’t, or my lunch just might come up.” She shuddered.

Hermione let out a hearty laugh, glad that it had distracted Ginny from asking any more uncomfortable questions, and they finished their lunch – or at least Hermione forced herself to.

Bidding goodbye to Daisy, they left the restaurant ten minutes later after arguing over who would pay the bill, eventually agreeing to split it equally.

It was raining more heavily now, and Ginny cursed under her breath as she turned to her.

“I’ll be going now, Mione. I’ll pop down to mom’s before going back to work to make sure those little snots aren’t driving her up the wall,” she chuckled and pulled her into a hug, “If anyone upsets you, you just have to tell me and they’ll be meeting the end of my wand.” she added before pulling away.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she chuckled, “Say hi to Molly for me!”

She watched Ginny walk to the Apparition point for a few moments and then rushed back to the Ministry, attempting to shield herself from the rain as best as she could as lightning struck the sky above and thunder soon followed.

It was the perfect personification of her day, really.

Her clothes were completely soaked by the time she had dashed into the Ministry, and she performed a drying charm on herself as she briskly walked to her office, greeting a few people on the way. She unlocked the door with a flick of her wrist and let herself in.

She lit the fireplace and took off her coat. Then, she rummaged through her bag again, held the small coin between her fingers again, and sat down at her desk.

Nothing had changed since she had left for lunch. The same message was staring at her.

_6:30 BM – BB._

She cast a quick glance at the grandfather clock. It was half past one.

Her head hit the desk and she buried her hands in her still damp hair as she let out a muffled groan of frustration.


	4. Painful Dilemma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The remainder of Hermione's day at the Ministry. Harry comes into play and tells Hermione about a mysterious case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to everyone celebrating, and happy holidays to those (like myself) who aren't. I hope you all have a good one and get to spend time with family despite the challenging circumstances, and if you're not, that's okay too. I know the holiday season can be lonely for some people for a whole bunch of reasons, so here's my Christmas present for you all.

_These are my hands, but what can they give me?  
These are my eyes, but they cannot see  
These are my arms, but they don’t know tenderness  
And I must confess that I am usually drawn to sadness  
And loneliness has never been a stranger to me, but_

_Love tried to welcome me  
But my sould drew back  
Guilty of lust and sin  
Love tried to take me in_

_These are my lips, but they whisper sorrow  
This is my voice, but it’s telling lies  
I know how to laugh, but I don’t know happiness  
And I must confess, instead of spring, it’s always winter  
And my heart has always been a lonely hunter, but still_

_Love tried to welcome me  
But my soul drew back  
I was covered with dust and sin  
Love tried to take me in_

Love Tried to Welcome Me, Madonna

**_4h35_ **

Hermione kept looking at the grandfather clock on the wall as she drummed her fingernails on the desk and wrestled with her conscience. She had been checking the time for the past ten minutes; it was five to two and Harry would be arriving any minute now.

She looked down at the file on her desk apprehensively. She had finished reading it fifteen minutes ago; the information on the file was very detailed and complete and also included major cases from the past ten years, but she couldn’t really understand why Harry had felt the need to compile all of this information.

She was aware there was still a minority of bigoted pureblood wizards, a few of them had even been opposed to her election as Minister for Magic two years ago; and there had also been a huge case three years ago where a werewolf had gone rogue and had targeted a few muggleborns and half-bloods, but he had been found mysteriously dead a few months later – the circumstances around his death remaining very unclear to this day. The wizarding world had by no means become perfect after Voldemort’s demise, but it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as his reign of terror.

She sighed and looked back at the clock. One minute left.

She looked down at the golden coin that was still on her desk and slowly twirled it around in her fingers. She had briefly considered replying “NO”, but she had instead settled on not doing anything. Bellatrix was impatient by nature and she knew having the dark witch wait, not knowing whether she would turn up, would greatly rile her up, and it provided her some satisfaction. Call her vindictive, but it was the least she deserved for toying with her and thinking she had her wrapped around her finger… figuratively speaking. She huffed, and the little voice in her head sniggered at the double entendre.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Hermione...” she muttered, shaking her head.

**_4h30_ **

There was a knock at the door just as the clock struck two, and she quickly slipped the golden coin into the pocket of her trousers.

“Come in!” she said, getting up from her chair and walking around her desk to lean against it.

The door to her office opened, and she smiled as Harry let himself in.

He looked so dishevelled; his already untidy jet-black hair was even messier than usual, the top few buttons of his shirt were undone, the sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and his tie was askew. She frowned in amusement.

“Minister Granger,” he greeted with a cheeky smile as he closed the door behind him.

“Oh stop it, you!” she swatted at his arm with a guffaw as he pulled her into a hug.

She felt him chuckle against her. She still wasn’t used to being referred to as “Minister” even after two years, and Harry, even Ginny sometimes, jokingly addressed her that way even when they were in private. It amused him to no end. _“All the spotlight will be on you now, for a change”_ he had joked the night of her election.

“Did you run into a herd of hippogriffs on your way here, Harry?” she asked with a small smile when they pulled away, “What happened to you?” She gave him a pointed look.

“Honestly, you say Ginny makes everything sexual but you’re no better, Hermione.” Harry grinned and shook his head. “How inappropriate of you, _Minister_!”

She gasped. “Hey! I didn’t mean it like that, you know me!” she exclaimed and clutched theatrically at her chest. “You wound me, Harry.”

Harry further shook his head and ran a hand through his messy hair.

“We’ve been dealing with the new recruits and training them all morning,” he sighed, “and then Dean had the _great_ idea to start a duelling competition in the department.” he finished as he struggled to readjust his tie.

“Oh yeah? And how did that go?” she sniggered and stepped in, slapping his hands away and turning up the collar of his shirt. She shook her head as she moved the wide end of the tie over the small end to the left and under; she had done this way too many times.

Harry flushed with embarrassment as he watched her hands work on his tie. “Well, some of the new recruits are very skilled and I believe they will make great Aurors, but it seems to me that the others are only here because they care more about working in _my_ department with _me_ than the actual job, you know.” He mumbled and looked away.

Hermione smiled softly as she moved the wide end through the loop she had just made in the front and tightened the knot. Even though it had been years, Harry still struggled with the fame and thought that he didn’t deserve all the credit that he got, which was something she could empathise with. The wizarding world loved to gush about the ‘Golden Trio’ and plenty of books had been written on them, but the war hadn’t only been won thanks to the three of them; everyone who had fought deserved the credit.

She slid the knot up, adjusted the tie, and took a step back. “I’m sure they mean well, Harry,” she started softly, “but anyway, who won the competition?” she asked, knowing that changing the subject would make him feel better.

“Well, Blaise was in the lead when I left, and he was about to duel Dean.” He frowned thoughtfully.

“So,” she started with a smirk, “the great Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One isn’t winning for once?” she taunted.

Harry’s eyes flashed with competitiveness. “I didn’t even take part this time,” he smiled.

“Oh?” she arched an eyebrow at him, “Scared you were going to lose to a bunch of newbies, Mister Potter?”

“Of course not,” Harry scoffed, “I would’ve been late to our meeting if I did,” then he flashed her a sly smile, “Why don’t you come up to the Department after our meeting so you can reclaim your title, _Minister_?”

Hermione threw her head back and laughed heartily. The Auror Office held a duelling competition at least once every year and she had won two years in a row when she was still working in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She had even trained some of the recruits herself a few years back.

“I’d love to Harry, but you know I have so much work to do,” she sighed.

“That’s okay,” he pouted in jest, “let’s have a rematch at the Burrow for Christmas.”

“You’re such a sore loser, Harry Potter!” she exclaimed, “but challenge accepted,” she finished by extending her hand, which he took and shook.

She looked at him with a fond smile for a moment and then slowly ran a hand through his hair, gently ruffling it. “You need a haircut, Harry.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t give me one for old time’s sake, would you?” he joked.

“Oh God no,” she groaned, remembering with embarrassment how she had attempted to cut his hair when they had been on the run, hunting for Horcruxes. She had tried her best, but it had been a disaster; she had many talents, but hairstyling was definitely not one of them.

“Unless you want Ginny to leave you, of course,” she added, and they both burst out laughing.

**_4h15_ **

When they calmed down, she cleared her throat and said, “Let’s get down to business now, shall we?”

Harry nodded, and she went to sit at her desk. When she turned around and sat down, her eyes slightly widened and she bumped into her desk, cursing loudly. Harry’s head snapped to hers, he didn’t often hear her curse, and he frowned as they stared at each other for a moment.

He had preferred to sit on the couch. _The_ couch. It shouldn’t have surprised her: he always sat there whenever they had a meeting or whenever they just wanted to talk. And it shouldn’t bother her, it really shouldn’t bother her, but now, after last night, all she could think about was Bellatrix and how soft she had felt as she had explored every inch of her body with her hands and kissed her all over before she had touched her most intimate part with her fingertips.

If she focused hard enough, she could even still see the way the dark witch’s breasts had moved with each breath she took and every pump of her fingers; and she could even still hear the sinful and salacious sounds that had come out of her plump lips as she had reached a shuddering climax.

She bit her lip and squeezed her thighs together under the desk as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She felt like all the blood in her body had rushed to her groin, her entire body alert. _Stop it_ , she admonished herself, _you’re only making it worse for yourself._

“Hermione?”

“Huh- what?”

She shook her head to get rid of her train of thought and turned to Harry.

He was looking at her with furrowed eyebrows, somewhat worried and somewhat confused, his green eyes scanning her face as though looking for a sign that she was hurt.

“Are you alright?”

“Oh, uh- yeah!” and she almost facepalmed herself for her overly cheerful tone, “Could you, uh- could you sit here instead?” she finished, gesturing at the seat across her desk.

“Oh…” she could tell he was taken aback by her sudden request by the way he was scratching at the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. “Okay,” he nodded and slowly got up.

She internally sighed with relief when he plopped down on the seat on her right, meaning that the leather couch wouldn’t be in her field of vision when she would look at him. She grabbed a pen, pulling the file towards herself, and opened her mouth to speak-

“Are you sure you’re alright, Hermione? Is something bothering you?”

The question threw her off as much in its phrasing as it did in the manner in which it was put forth; he sounded like he _knew_ something, but she had no idea what. Or maybe the guilt was just making her paranoid and read too much into things because _she_ knew what she had done, and she knew she _had_ to hide it.

“No, why do you ask?” And she inwardly winced and cursed at the defensive edge in her voice; her walls were up, and she knew Harry knew it too from the way he physically recoiled. She licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry, and her nails briefly dug into her thighs.

She sighed and clasped her hands tightly together so that they wouldn’t shake and give her away. “I’m sorry, Harry”, she breathed out, “I’ve just been really tired lately. I have so much to do, and I-“ she looked down at the file on her desk, and Harry followed her eyeline.

His posture softened, and she almost jumped out of her skin when she felt his hand on her own, his thumb carressing her knuckles.

“Oh, Hermione, I’m so sorry. I should’ve known. We can talk about this another day if you’d like, or not at all.”

“What?” Her eyes moved from his hand on hers to his eyes, which held so much understanding and compassion in that moment. Her mouth formed a silent “o” as realisation dawned on her.

“Harry… No- I-“ she started spluttering and went to remove her hand when he gripped it a bit tighter and squeezed in what he thought was a reassuring gesture, but it only contributed to her growing unease and guilt.

She could hear her heart beating in her ears and she found herself wishing that she could just dissolve into the air, into nothing. She wished she could just disappear, escape.

“Hermione, it’s fine. I get it, honestly. The information on there is quite triggering, I should’ve known better. Especially because it mentions-”

“Harry, stop.” She stopped him before he could say her name. She didn’t think she could bear it; she was sure she would just burst into tears the moment he uttered her name.

Harry’s eyes widened and he scratched his neck. “I can leave if you want…” he muttered and started getting up.

“No, no,” she stopped him, “I’m fine… just- just give me a moment,” she finished and bowed her head, burying her hands in her hair.

She closed her eyes; tears threatened to fall from her eyes, and the back of her throat burned from trying to hold them in. She couldn’t believe she was on the verge of having a breakdown in front of Harry. Sure, she had had her fair share of breakdowns since the end of the war, but only twice in Harry’s presence; she always maintained a strong facade when in front of others and only let the mask slip away behind closed doors when she was alone. And she especially didn’t want to shed tears in front of him for someone who had taken his only family away from him.

**_4h_ **

She took a few calming breaths to reign in her emotions and inwardly chanted to herself, _‘Don’t cry, Hermione. Don’t cry. Pull yourself together. You’re stronger than this. He doesn’t know anything.’_ She slowly counted to ten in her mind, and the tightness in her chest and stomach abaded the more she focused on her breathing and the more she told herself that everything was going to be okay and that she had nothing to fear in that moment.

Once she had her tears in check and her panic subsided and her mental alarms ceased ringing in her ears, she raised her head, looking over at Harry, and she felt her heart melt at the sight.

He had lowered his head respectfully, giving her the privacy she needed and waiting for her to compose herself as best as she could without having him interfere and pry.

She cleared her throat and hoped her voice wouldn’t crack. “Okay… Let’s get this over with.” she said in a hoarse voice, and coughed. 

Harry slowly raised his head and his green eyes flicked between hers. “Are you sure?”

“Harry… Yes,” she sighed for the umpteenth time and rubbed at her temples, “The sooner we do this, the better,” she paused, “ _Please_.”

They stared at each other in awkward silence for a moment; Hermione could see the gears turning in Harry’s head as he tried to make sense of her odd behaviour, and she silently prayed that he wouldn’t ask any more questions and would just go along and accept her outrageous lie that she was just irritated and tired from the workload.

The tension in her shoulders eased a little when Harry finally nodded and straightened up in his seat, a sign that she had all his attention.

She looked down at the folder again and flipped through the sheets of paper, stopping at one where she had underlined and circled some words.

“Okay, so…” she started and slid the paper across the desk over to Harry, who leaned over the desk, arms braced on the smooth surface.

**_3h35_ **

They had been going over and discussing some of the information, like parallels between the methods used by the Death Eaters and criminals in recent years, when something, which she hadn’t really thought much of when she had first read the file, caught her attention.

“Wait, Harry…”

Harry, who had been talking to her about a recent case of a smuggler bringing in dark artifacts through Knockturn Alley, looked up at her questioningly.

“Didn’t Augustus Rookwood die at the Battle of Hogwarts?”

“What?” he frowned. Hermione showed him the paper she had been going over. “Oh yeah, we thought he did. Don’t you remember?”

“No? Refresh my memory, please.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Well, remember how the day after the Final Battle, we disposed of the fallen Death Eaters’ bodies?” Hermione nodded; oh, she remembered very clearly, alright. “Well, we were so euphoric about our victory that we didn’t really bother count how many bodies there were and make sure every single one of them had been taken care of. We were just eager to close this chapter of our lives and move on, which looking back on it now was a reckless mistake on our part. Anyone could’ve escaped.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. Oh, the memories were coming back to her now. She had been so preoccupied with _her_ ‘death’ that everything that had happened after she had seen _her_ ‘body’ being carried away had been very fuzzy to her. But she did remember now, and a foreboding sense of dread washed over her.

“Yes, I remember now,” she mumbled thoughtfully, “so he escaped but you never found him? Sounds odd.”

“Yes, that’s the weird part, isn’t it? We looked for him everywhere and there was no trace of him anywhere unlike the few other Death Eaters who managed to escape. Remember when we captured Rodolphus Lestrange,” he pointed out and she bristled at the name, “well, when we interrogated him, he never gave any indication that he had been working and hiding with someone else.”

“He could’ve been covering for him, you know,” she drawled.

He pulled his glasses up his nose and ran a hand down his face. “Yes, except we interrogated him under Veritaserum, and he insisted Rookwood was dead. So in the end, we just concluded that he must’ve died one way or another during his escape.”

Hermione chewed on her lower lip, a tick she couldn’t seem to get rid of, as she tapped her pen against the desk. “Are you sure no one else escaped?” she asked hesitantly.

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Positive. Why do you ask?”

“Just making sure,” she shrugged, looking at him pointedly, “since Rookwood somehow escaped under our noses so easily.”

A red hue tinged Harry’s face and she felt bad for twisting the knife in the wound when he looked at her sheepishly, but she had to be sure. If her suspicions were correct, then this would explain how Bellatrix’s escape had gone unnoticed.

“Don’t worry, Hermione,” he started and reached over to pat her hand, “they’re either all dead or in prison.”

She slowly nodded and looked away.

**_3h15_ **

She set down her pen and smiled warmly as Harry stretched his arms in front of him and yawned.

“Okay, I think we’re done,” she started, “but Harry, what I don’t understand is why did you feel the need to compile all of this information… Is there another dark wizard at large?” she asked worriedly.

“No, or at least we don’t think so,” he paused, and Hermione cocked her head to the side, raising one eyebrow, “but we suspect someone, whose identity remains unknown, is either working _for_ us or _against_ us,” he finished.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you remember the werewolf who was found dead a few years ago?”

“Yes, the one who targeted muggleborns and half-bloods,” she nodded and frowned, “it was mentioned in the file.”

“Yes. We think his death and some of the recent cases might be related.”

Her insides turned cold. “What? How?”

“Well, you remember how he died… everyone was trying to track him down and then suddenly he was found dead in a dark alleyway.”

“Yes, but Harry… what does this have to do with anything? The circumstances around his death remain unknown to this day; we don’t know who or what caused it,” she interjected.

“Yes, but there were bitemarks and claw marks on his neck,” Harry explained, “and we’ve noticed similar marks on other criminals we had been looking for.”

“Are you saying another werewolf has gone rogue?”

“Look, we don’t know that yet, but I just thought you should know as Minister for Magic. For example, take that one guy who was going around assaulting witches at night a few months ago: we found him unconscious and bloodied a few weeks ago, and the same marks were on his body. And more recently, the dark artifacts smuggler was found in a similar state, although not as bloodied as the sex offender,” Harry sighed and looked at her tiredly.

“Do you have any leads on who or what it might be?”

“No… but we’re working on it. Whoever or _whatever_ it is, is very smart and either working anonymously and making our job easier for us or simply mocking us,” Harry grumbled.

Hermione covered her face with her hands and groaned. “Will we ever have one peaceful day?” her voice was muffled by her hands, “As if we didn’t have enough to deal with or worry about, now someone has decided to fuck with us.”

“Oh my, such crude words from you, Minister,” Harry sniggered, and Hermione laughed nervously, trying to ignore how his words echoed what Bellatrix had said last night seconds before she reached her second climax.

She heard Harry moving around and she removed her hands from her face when she felt his arm around her shoulders and was pulled to his side, her face against his chest.

“Don’t worry, Hermione, we’re working on it and we will find them. I’ll update you every step of the way,” he said, rubbing her arm gently.

“Thank you, Harry,” she mumbled and nuzzled into his chest.

He kissed the top of her head and removed his arm, and she looked up at him. “Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?” he asked and looked at the time.

“No, that was all,” she shook her head and looked at the time too: it was half past three.

**_3h_ **

“Okay, well, I think I’m going to go back to the Department and see how they’re doing.”

Hermione chuckled and stood up. “You’re bursting to know who’s the new duelling champion, aren’t you?” she teased.

They laughed and walked to the office door. She was about to open it when Harry stopped and turned to her.

“Are you really okay? Ginny said you were distracted when you had lunch earlier.”

She rolled her eyes. _Of course she did_ , she thought. “Yes, Harry. Like I told her, I’m just tired,” she insisted, “Don’t worry about me.”

“Okay,” he relented and opened the door. “Try to get some rest, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she drawled, “Now, shoo!” she smiled and waved her hand dismissively.

Harry shook his head and left. She watched him walk down the corridor for a moment, and greeted other Ministry officials before she closed the door and leaned against it, sighing both with relief and frustration.

She looked at the time again. She only had three hours left.

 _What to do now_ , she wondered. She thought her meeting with Harry would distract her from her restless thoughts, and it did to some extent, but it also greatly troubled her and left many unanswered questions.

She dropped into her chair again and chewed her lip pensively as she rested her chin in her right hand.

Did Bellatrix transmute Rookwood’s body into hers? If so, how? She must’ve gotten outside help, but who? Rodolphus Lestrange? She frowned and scrunched her nose up in frustration and distaste. Bellatrix utterly despised Rodolphus from the little she had told her, and she knew the feeling was mutual, but they worked very well together as a team so could he have helped her? Did they escape together? Did they _stay together_ until Rodolphus was caught?

She clenched her jaw and her hands formed into fists, her fingernails piercing the heels of her palms, but she was numb to the physical pain. She couldn’t bear the thought of the dark witch staying with him and letting him touch her when _she_ could’ve helped her. She took a shuddering breath and tried to calm her wildly thumping heart, cool logic sliding into her thoughts: she shouldn’t draw conclusions so quickly, she didn’t know anything, and only Bellatrix could answer her questions. But would she truthfully answer? She never gave a direct response when she was questioned; she had learnt this the hard way.

She shook her head vigorously and her eyes darted around the room. She’d better keep herself busy; she wordlessly flicked her wand and a set of papers came flying from a stack in the filing cabinet and landed on her desk: Wizengamot court transcripts and law proposals.

She shifted in her chair and set to work.

**_2h10_ **

Hermione huffed and leaned back in her seat; her eyes glued to the grandfather clock on the wall. Time seemed to pass fast today, almost as if it knew there was somewhere she _needed_ to be and was urging her to make a decision out of some universal need. Frustrated, she tapped her pen against the desk as if doing so would make the minutes and seconds go by slower.

She reached a hand into the pocket of her trousers and took out the rusty Galleon again.

_6:30 BM – BB._

Black Manor. Where was Black Manor even located? She had no idea. She only knew of Grimmauld Place as the ancestral home of the Black family.

She suddenly dropped her pen and stood up so fast that her chair almost tipped over. She gripped her vine wood wand and left her office, briskly walking down the Ministry corridors.

A few minutes later, she found herself in the archive room on the ninth level of the Ministry, near the Department of Mysteries. The entrance hall and the rows of shelves behind it were separated by an ornate gilded grille.

The archive room didn’t seem to be too crowded at the moment, and the archivist, an elderly woman named Susan Jones, was sitting behind her desk, writing on a parchment with a quill.

“Good afternoon, Mrs Jones,” Hermione greeted, causing the older woman to look up from what she was writing and immediately straighten up.

“Minister,” she nodded and smiled. “Can I be of any service at all?”

“Oh, I just need to have a look at a file,” she shrugged, “I’ll be quick.”

“Certainly,” Mrs Jones nodded and clasped her hands together, “Would you like me to get it for you, Minister?”

“Oh no, don’t put yourself out,” she smiled. “I’ll be quick.”

“Very well, Minister,” the archivist replied and went back to work.

She knew that usually, the older woman would ask for a requisition form, but being Minister for Magic had its advantages, and she was very grateful for them today; she simply couldn’t imagine herself explain why she needed to have a look at Bellatrix’s file.

And with that, Hermione sprang into action. She quickly crossed the gilded doors and walked down the shelves, looking for the one which stored the files going from the letters ‘L’ to ‘N’; they were sorted alphabetically by name and she knew that the Ministry officials still used Bellatrix’s married name, to her dismay.

Other workers were perusing the shelves and she greeted them with a nod as she passed them.

She looked around herself when she finally reached her destination and quickly scanned the drawers.

“Aha!” she quietly exclaimed when her eyes landed on the drawer with the label ‘La-Li’ and looked around to make sure no one was looking.

She pulled the drawer open and quickly flicked through the various files before pulling out Bellatrix’s. She dropped it on top of the other files and slightly turned on her side, her back to the other shelves, so that if anyone passed by, they wouldn’t see which file exactly she was reading. She flipped it open and quickly turned the pages, looking for the information she needed. Clouds of dust rose from the pages, enveloping her like a fog, and she coughed.

She stopped when her eyes caught the words ‘Black Manor’, and she traced them with her fingertip. The page read, “ _Black Manor – Location: Northumberland_ ” and was accompanied by a picture of the Manor and its surroundings.

She etched the image in her mind and closed the file, hastily putting it back into place and shutting the drawer closed.

**_25min_ **

Hermione had quickly returned to her office after that and hadn’t been able to do anything else but to ponder over what she should do and weigh the pros and cons, but they were even.

On the one hand, she would get to see Bellatrix again (and as much as she tried to deny it, she did want to see her), she would also get to see the place where she had grown up and was now living in, and she could perhaps get her to answer some of her questions with some persuasion. _And also get another taste_ , the nagging voice in her head added, but she shook her head and brushed it off.

On the other hand, she would have to make up an excuse to Ron as to why she would be home late again, lying to him _again_ , which would in turn just add to her guilt, and she would further fall down the rabbit hole. And finally, if she complied now, it would just give Bellatrix more reasons to seek her out later on, which she didn’t want as she desperately tried to tell herself. _She didn’t._

She buried her hands in her hair and groaned.

**_10min_ **

Too frantic to sit, she paced in her office, twirling her wand in her hands as she tried to make up her mind.

She wanted to go, she did, but she was afraid of the answers – or lack thereof – that she might get and the feelings that may resurface when she faced the dark witch again. She looked to the door, and then to the grandfather clock, as if the answer was hiding there.

It was getting closer and closer to the time Bellatrix had given her. And it didn’t help that the scar on her forearm had started tingling again.

She cursed under her breath as she continued pacing and the clock continued ticking.

**_5min_ **

A plan formed in her head and she grabbed a parchment and a pen and quickly scribbled something on it. She enchanted the memo, opened the door to her office and watched as it flew in the direction of the Auror Office.

She closed the door again and wordlessly flicked her wand around her office, momentarily lifting the Anti-Apparition charm.

She looked at the time one last time, focused on her destination, and disappeared with a quiet ‘pop.’


	5. Uncharted Territory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...and our girls meet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone! I think we can all agree 2020 was one of the worst years ever on all aspects, and I couldn't be happier that it's finally over. Here's to hoping that this year will be much better and a lot more fun, even though things won't go back to normal right away. 
> 
> Thank you for all the kudos and comments; hope you all enjoy this new chapter! As always, feedback is very much appreciated.

_What if this road, that has held no surprises  
these many years, decided not to go  
home after all; what if it could turn  
left or right with no more ado  
than a kite-tail? What if its tarry skin  
were like a long, supple bolt of cloth,  
that is shaken and rolled out, and takes  
a new shape from the contours beneath?  
And if it chose to lay itself down  
in a new way; around a blind corner,  
across hills you must climb without knowing  
what’s on the other side; who would not hanker  
to be going, at all risks? Who wants to know  
a story’s end, or where a road will go?_

What If This Road, Sheenagh Pugh

Hermione landed on a patch of grass and it took her a moment to recollect herself; her head was spinning, and her stomach churned, making her want to vomit. No matter how many times she had done it over the years, she still wasn’t a big fan of Apparition and the uncomfortable sensation that came with it. And her current anxiety made it so much worse.

Once her stomach settled a bit, she opened her eyes to take in her surroundings, and her nerves skittered off in another direction. She had landed in a clearing in a forest, a far cry from the image she had in mind when she Apparated.

She silently cursed under her breath as she curiously peered around her; this forest wasn’t the lush green forests that she was used to seeing around London and in the Scottish Highlands. The area around her was overgrown from disuse, the yellowed grass reaching as high as three feet, and the branches of the tall trees were crooked, wiry clumps of moss hanging from their appendages. The roots of the trees were twisted and disappeared under a soft mist, which covered the forest floor and rippled like the surface of a lake, giving the place an eerie and creepy feeling as though ghosts and creatures were floating around and watching any intruder, unseen.

She felt a chill race up her spine at how eerily and oddly quiet the forest was. There were no animals making noises, no birds chirping amidst the trees, no small insects scurrying about in the undergrowth, no wind rustling any leaves or trees. Everything was perfectly still and quiet. Only the sound of her own heartbeat, ragged breathing, and the rain disrupted the eerie quiet that seemed to blanket the forest.

She looked up; the sky was mostly covered by the high trees, and she could faintly see the low-hanging, grey rain clouds through the canopy of distorted branches and swaying moss, keeping the downpour at bay for now.

She looked around herself again to see if she could spot any animals, looking for the slightest sign of life other than the surrounding trees, but found nothing. A pensive frown settled over her features and she tightly gripped her wand, feeling stupid for doing so. She had experienced many dangers in her life over the years – facing a three-headed dog, a basilisk, a werewolf, Snatchers, Death Eaters, Voldemort – but the trees were strange and the lack of light created shadows that would surely make even the boldest of men feel uneasy and terrified.

Suddenly, she spotted what looked to be a narrow path between the grass, and it was so indiscernible from the wild vegetation that she would’ve missed it had she not been paying close attention to her surroundings. She didn’t know if she was even in the right place, but she had no desire to be stuck in this forest, so she decided to follow the path and see where it led.

“Lumos,” she whispered. A small ball of light blossomed on the tip of her wand and she aimed it at the shadows cast by the giant trees around her.

She rolled her shoulders and willed her legs to move. She sighed heavily as she waded through the overgrown grass, trying to be as quiet as possible, but it seemed that the twigs under her feet didn’t agree as they crackled with each step she took, disturbing the forest’s silence. She cast a glance behind her every once in a while to make sure she wasn’t being followed as she travelled deeper into the woods.

She must have made her way about half a mile into the forest by now, and she still couldn’t help but realise that there was still no sign of any animals or human life even though she had been walking for quite some time.

A sudden chill ran up her spine at that moment when she thought she felt something brush against her, and she whirled around just as her foot caught a hidden root and she went tumbling down, her hand stretching out to break the fall. Pain shot up through her hand, but she quickly got up and held her wand forward, her hand slightly trembling as she scanned the area with painful anxiety and looked for any movement. But she saw nothing; nobody, _nothing_ was there.

She huffed and shook her head; she was being ridiculous and skittish for no reason. She decided it would be best to hurry up. She had no thoughts except for one that kept running through her mind, “ _I don’t want to be here after dark._ ”

After what felt like an eternity, the path widened, and she pushed the foliage aside, ducking to get under the branch and in doing so, a hidden sawn-off branch connected with her cheek; she winced when blood trickled down her cheek, reaching up to feel the warm liquid drip onto her hand and silently cursing the dark witch for making her come all the way here.

 _You know she didn’t make you do anything,_ the nagging voice in her head pointed out _._

She shook her head, easily ignoring the voice, and looked around. The path here was much less unruly and the mud was replaced by cobblestone, and it divided into three. The first two paths, one that stretched straight ahead and another on her left, would take her back into the forest, and the other on her right went up a hill and then started down the other side, disappearing into a mist. The third path was still surrounded by trees, but they were sparser and weren’t so close together, providing much more natural light as it filtered through the treetops and leaves.

She had a feeling this path was the right one, and not one to ignore her instincts, she turned right and started to ascend the hill, the path getting a bit winding. It was tedious for a few minutes, her breath growing shorter by the second and each step more painful than the last, but she reached the top at long last and stopped to catch her breath.

She looked down and realised the state she was in; her shoes were absolutely ruined, her trousers were black with mud, and her hands were covered in dirt as well from when she tripped and braced herself against the ground. If anyone saw her now, they would think she had been in a fight with a centaur and had lost.

“Tergeo,” she muttered, pointing her wand at herself, and the drying mud on her clothes and shoes evaporated.

She gazed down the hill, taking in her surroundings. The cobblestone pathway at the end of the hill was flanked on either side by hedges and led to what looked to be gates, behind which stood an imposing building that peeled itself out of the horizon.

She puffed a shaky breath and started the slow descent towards her destination. The slope on this side of the hill was slippery, the mud loose due to the rain, and she stumbled twice, catching herself at the last second each time.

She struggled for a few minutes but at last, she found herself on the pathway leading to the wrought-iron gates. She took slow steps towards them, feeling her heartbeat quicken the closer she got. She wondered what time it was; her trek through the woods must’ve taken her a good thirty minutes, so she assumed it must be at least seven.

Ron would be home soon, and she hoped that Harry had gotten her memo and passed on her message to him. She had quickly scribbled down that she would be meeting with some of her Muggle friends tonight and would probably be home very late. She was aware it was a feeble excuse; she hadn’t seen her muggle friends in years, and she could’ve sent Ron a Patronus, but she was a terrible liar and her voice would’ve been a dead giveaway. She hoped that at least Harry would make plans with Ron so he wouldn’t spend his Friday night on his own.

She came to a halt a few feet from the ivy-bound wrought-iron gates when she felt the invisible magic radiating from them. She knew that pureblood houses were protected by blood wards to keep anyone who wasn’t part of that family and a pureblood at bay, and she knew that terrible things happened to anyone who dared break in. Black Manor would be no exception, especially considering their family motto.

She looked up; the gates were encased by a wall and a grey stone arch with two sculpted snakes on each side towering menacingly over the visitors – or rather, the _intruders_. They looked so life-like that for one second, Hermione thought they were enchanted to slide down the wall and strike anyone that the Black family didn’t deem worthy of stepping foot onto the property. Along the arch were silvery letters grown rusty over the years which spelt the mighty words _Toujours Pur, or Always Pure_. She inadvertently shuddered at the display of pride and contempt; she hadn’t even stepped foot onto the property or in the Manor itself yet, but she already felt very oppressed and unwelcome.

What would happen if she were to reach out a hand and touch the gates? Would she be blown to pieces? Would she merely be a smear of blood on the stone walls? Would the sculpted snakes spring to life and strike and sink their fangs into her skin, the venom quickly spreading through her body and killing her within seconds?

Her mouth was suddenly very dry, and she didn’t dare move for a moment. She was still tightly gripping her wand and the Galleon was still in the pocket of her trousers. Should she take it out and warn Bellatrix she was outside the gates, or should see send her a Patronus in case she didn’t check the coin? Or… was the dark witch intentionally keeping her out in the cold because she was late? It would be so like her to do such a thing out of spite.

It was as though the Manor, or rather _Bellatrix_ , had heard her thoughts because a shudder suddenly rippled through the gates, and she watched with wide eyes as unseen hands slowly opened the gates, which screeched loudly from years of neglect.

She stood transfixed for a few seconds and marvelled at the centuries-old magic as she watched the gates part like waltzing ghosts. Beyond the gates was a serpentine driveway slithering off towards the imposing and old mansion that rose into the grey sky. She gulped, rolled her shoulders, and took the first slow and cautious steps onto the property, feeling the gates close back behind her with an ominous and resounding thud that made her jump slightly.

 _It feels wrong_ , she thought as she advanced. It felt so wrong to be here, walking on the gravel which crackled beneath her feet; she could practically feel the offensive magic around the property and she half-expected something to jump out from the shadows and attack her.

She let her eyes roam across the property as she slowly walked. The driveway was flanked on either side by topiary shrubs in the shape of snakes, but the entire area was so uncared for that the shape was almost indiscernible now. If she didn’t know any better, she would think the heir of Slytherin lived here. _Slytherins and their bloody pride_ , she thought and shook her head.

Behind the shrubs, she could make out a garden long gone to seed and grown over with weeds. She could also see some oak trees scattered around the area, but they were covered in moss and the leaves were curled in an unhealthy way, bearing deep brown spots.

The place just looked lifeless and withering, devoid of any colour save for a few flowers which were still trying to fight their way out of the high grasses, and dead rose trees cast eerie shadows upon the foreboding mansion. Overall, it all felt like a scene from a horror movie, and a wild shiver ran down her spine as she thought of all the movies she had seen that started out in the exact same situation and setting she was in.

She let out a shuddering breath and hurried until she reached the stairs leading up to the doorway. She stood for a moment under the shadow of the roof overhead and took in the stonework on the facade; the stone was as dark as the name of the family that had once inhabited the place, but dark shades of grey swirled through; she could see a few cracks here and there, showing how _old_ the manor was; and ivy covered one side of the structure, extending its tendrils across the front of the manor and creeping along the windows.

Hermione steadied her nerves, gripped her wand tighter, and raised her hand, preparing to knock on the large wooden door when it slowly swung inwards, though nobody had visibly opened it like the gates.

She slowly stepped into the entrance hall. She thought Malfoy Manor was impressive, but it had nothing on Black Manor.

Everything was dark, dusky, and old. There was no light except from the little light from the outside which filtered through the thick black curtains that covered the large windows on each side. An expensive-looking chandelier was hanging from the centre of the ceiling. The walls were dark and draped with tapestries depicting scenes of fighting and past glory, of lush forests and graceful animals as well as the Black family crest – a shield with greyhounds, two five-pointed stars and a sword.

One main grand staircase curled upwards, leading up to what she assumed must be the main rooms while two subordinate stairs led to other places in the Manor. Two paintings covered by black curtains hung on each side of the main staircase, and she shuddered for what had to be the umpteenth time when she remembered the paintings in Grimmauld Place. She decided she would steer clear of them and try to be as quiet as possible; she had no desire to meet Bellatrix’s family and be at the receiving end of their abuse. It also didn’t help that she could hear and feel disapproving murmurs and glances.

The manor was immensely huge and yet, it felt awfully empty, dark, and mysterious, making her feel extremely uneasy and lost. In a way, the Manor felt like a substitute for Azkaban and its Dementors. The overall atmosphere felt highly oppressive, and try as she might, she couldn’t imagine a single happy scene taking place here; it was as though the surrounding walls sucked the energy and will to live out of anyone who stepped foot inside.

She couldn’t imagine growing up here. No wonder that Andromeda had seized the first opportunity that presented itself to leave and never come back, leaving Bellatrix and Narcissa behind. Speaking of whom, where was she?

“Bellatrix?” she called out softly and waited.

No answer came and she frowned. Was the dark witch even here? She called out for her again, this time a bit louder but still, no answer came. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest and beads of perspiration forming on her temples. She didn’t like this at all. She hadn’t come this far not to see her, especially as she was risking so much and had so many questions that needed answering.

She hesitated for a moment and took a few steps forward, her shoes clicking against the black marble of the floor, until she came to a halt when she reached the main staircase leading to the upper floors. She rested her hand on the newel, which was topped by an ornate carving, and looked up.

Should she go and look for her herself? She brushed off the thought as quickly as it came; the Manor was huge, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to explore it on her own. The atmosphere felt oppressive enough down here. No, she’d better call for the raven-haired witch another way.

She raised her wand and was about to utter the Patronus Charm when she felt a sudden presence at her side. She turned and yelped, the sound resonating throughout the Manor. The curtains on the portraits flew open and she heard four voices bellow, “HOW DARE YOU STEP INTO THESE HALLS, MUDBLOOD?! FILTH, SCUM, GET OUT, GET OUT!” and she winced, but the curtains were shut just as quickly as they had opened, and the voices faded away.

She looked back down at the source that had her scream in the first place. A small and elderly house-elf was looking up at her with her characteristic big glossy eyes. However, this one didn’t have the submissive stance of most house-elves she had seen before, leading her to think this particular house-elf had been treated with kindness, which surprised her given the history of the Black family and their contempt for magical creatures. Even Sirius, who had run away from his family’s bigoted ways, had mistreated Kreacher.

“Pinky didn’t mean to scare the missus,” the house-elf squeaked out, her pointy ears drooping and her wide green eyes growing watery.

Hermione felt a pang of compassion for the elderly house-elf. “No, no, it’s okay. I just didn’t think anyone was here,” she quickly said then softly smiled, “so, your name is Pinky, then?”

The house-elf perked up and eagerly nodded. “Have you been working for the Black family for long?” Hermione inquired.

“Pinky is serving the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black since Pinky can remember, Miss!” the elderly house-elf exclaimed in her squeaky voice. So that explained why she couldn’t see a speck of dust anywhere despite the fact that the place hadn’t been inhabited in years, Hermione thought.

“But Pinky is Mistress Bellatrix’s personal house-elf, Miss! Pinky do remember the day the Mistress is born! Pinky is raising the Mistress!” the house-elf continued, nodding excitedly.

Hermione chuckled. She could just about imagine a younger Bellatrix Black being raised by the small house-elf and scowling grumpily as Pinky fussed over her and kindly reprimanded her for getting up to some mischief. Her heart soared at the endearing image in her mind.

“Is Bellatrix here, Pinky?” Hermione kindly asked, placing her wand in its holster now that she knew there was no threat.

“Yes, Pinky is instructed to take the missus to the Mistress!” Pinky frantically nodded again. “Is you a friend of Mistress Bellatrix’s?”

“Something like that,” she mumbled. “My name is Hermione. Can you take me to her, Pinky?”

“Miss Hermione,” Pinky repeated, surprisingly pronouncing her name right on the first try. “Yes, Pinky is happy to take Miss Hermione to Mistress Bellatrix!” she squeaked and padded towards the subordinate stair on the right, Hermione following behind.

“Mistress Bellatrix talks a lot about young Miss Hermione to Pinky,” the elderly house-elf suddenly said after a few moments of peaceful silence as they ascended the stairs.

Hermione almost tripped on the stairs and had to hold on to the handrail as she recovered. “B-Bellatrix t-told you about me?” she choked out.

“Oh, yes!” Pinky replied in a cheerful tone, “Mistress Bellatrix is very fond of Miss Hermione!” she continued as though it was a normal thing to say, and unaware of Hermione’s reddening face.

Bellatrix was _fond_ of her? She sighed and shook her head. Bellatrix confused her to no end, and she wasn’t easily confused. Sometimes, she spoke to and treated her in such a way that it made her believe she actually cared for her but at the same time, sometimes it was like there was no one she hated more in the world. Okay… maybe ‘hate’ was too strong a word because she didn’t act like a pureblood maniac around her and didn’t treat her like the dirt beneath her shoes, but… if she was truly _fond_ of her like Pinky claimed she was, then she wouldn’t have hidden away for so long knowing how painful it had been to think she was ‘dead’. You just didn’t treat the people you ‘liked’, or ‘loved’ like that.

But still, she was intrigued by what the small house-elf had said. Why would Bellatrix even confide in Pinky and tell her about her in the first place? And most importantly, what did she tell her? The dark witch didn’t come across as the most open person, so it was most peculiar that she would share her “deepest” secrets with a house-elf. But then again, if what Pinky said was true, she had partly raised Bellatrix and still served her, meaning she was magically bound to her and couldn’t betray her, so perhaps that was the reason the older witch felt more inclined to talk to her.

At this point, nothing made sense to her anymore. The dark witch was a mystery to her; she was like a puzzle that she wanted to solve, but all the pieces were missing. And she felt a pang of pain at the realisation that she knew so little about Bellatrix, but the feeling was also coupled with envy; she wished she would trust her and talk to her as well…

She bowed her head, in deep thought, as she followed Pinky along the corridors, not paying as much attention to the furnishings anymore as they walked past more portraits covered by black curtains. It was clear to Hermione that Pinky knew a lot about Bellatrix, much more than she did, and she suspected she must know about what happened to the dark witch after the Final Battle. She had half a mind to ask Pinky about it, but she immediately brushed off the idea and hated herself for even considering it in the first place; not only would it be futile as she was bound to Bellatrix, but it would also be unfair of her to take advantage of the elf’s kindness. And although Bellatrix seemed to treat her house-elf better than most purebloods did, there was no telling she wouldn’t punish Pinky.

She was eventually brought out of her thoughts when Pinky stopped in front of a set of double doors trimmed in brass and large handles that appeared to be gold and around which were carved vines.

Pinky turned and looked up at her with a kind smile on her face.

“Mistress Bellatrix be here, Miss Hermione,” she squeaked, and Hermione was about to thank her when the elf continued, “Pinky think Miss Hermione should know something before she go.”

Hermione’s brows furrowed together, and she regarded Pinky with confusion. “Yes, Pinky? What is it?”

Determination settled on the elf’s features. “Pinky know that the Mistress can be mean and violent, but she can also be nice. Mistress be very nice to Pinky! What Pinky be wanting to say is that,” and Pinky’s ears drooped, “Mistress Bellatrix be behaving that way because Mistress be very sad and don’t know how to process it.”

“Bellatrix is sad?” Hermione breathed out.

“Yes, Pinky know it, Pinky saw it.”

“When?” Hermione inquired, not knowing if she was asking too much, but Pinky had oddly decided to share this with her, so she would gladly listen if it meant she would learn something about the dark witch.

“The Mistress be sad since Miss Andromeda left, Miss Hermione. Master and Mistress Black were very angry,” Pinky whispered, her big eyes fearfully darting from side to side as though Cygnus and Druella Black would appear at any moment at the mention of their names, “but Miss Hermione be very good for Mistress Bellatrix. She be happy to see you” she finished with a watery smile.

Hermione’s frown deepened. She took a deep breath, opened her mouth, and then closed it again. She was even more confused. She couldn’t imagine Bellatrix ever being sad. She just didn’t seem like the type of person to sit around and wallow. Rather, she was more the reason of others’ sadness. Bellatrix would be _happy_ to see her? She almost wanted to scoff; it was all so laughable really, but the look on Pinky’s face was solemn. It wasn’t a joke. If anything, it sounded like Pinky had been itching to say this aloud for many years but had been unable to until now.

She finally settled on nodding. “Thank you for sharing this with me, Pinky. You’re a very good elf.”

Pinky beamed at the compliment, “Pinky just want the Mistress to be happy,” she added quietly, and the doors finally opened with a snap of her fingers…

…and Hermione’s eyes widened in awe.

She was in a library, and it was one of the grandest she had ever seen and been in; not even the Hogwarts Library could compare. She stared around her, amazed: hundreds upon hundreds of books were stacked in neat rows on bookshelves of varying height and size towering towards the tall ceiling. The leather spines were lined up perfectly, their titles all curled in one direction and turned to the side so that you had to slightly tilt your head to be able to read them. Just the sheer number of books she could read here overwhelmed her as well.

Like the rest of the manor, the walls were a mix of black and dark green, but they were covered in fantastic carvings showing dragons breathing curls of steam, and many other strange things, but most outstanding of all were the carved runic symbols representing numbers. She could make out the graphorn, the dual horns representing the number “2”; the fwooper representing the number “4” with the four different colours of its feathers; the demiguise whose invisibility represented the number “0”; and the unknown, an egg-shaped creature with four legs which also looked like a faceless head, representing the number “7” due to the symbolic meaning of the number being shrouded in mysteries. 

She could practically feel the magic, ‘light’ and ‘dark’, radiating from the books; she was sure each book in this room held its own world of wonders and answers to lifelong questions about humanity and the wizarding world that had lasted for hundreds of years.

And she almost audibly gasped when she looked up at the ceiling. It showed the constellation of Orion, depicting him holding a club held high in one hand and a sword in the other, and she instantly recognised the bright star marking his right shoulder which Bellatrix was named after; the natal star of all destined to great civil or military honours, and which rendered all women born under its influence lucky and loquacious. Bellatrix, the Female Warrior, the Amazon Star.

 _How fitting_ , Hermione thought and smiled as her eyes traced the constellation.

So enthralled was she by the decoration in the library that she forgot Pinky was still standing beside her, and she didn’t register the presence of the dark-haired witch who was sitting at the back of the room and looking at her with narrowed eyes and a smirk, which was hidden by the book in her hands.

“You’re late,” the husky voice interrupted the otherwise silent room, startling her from her trance.

Hermione’s smile dropped like a falling star at the same time as her heart, and anxiety filled her veins again. She tore her gaze away from the star-studded ceiling and looked down towards where the voice had come from.

The dark witch was sprawled on a plush armchair facing away from her at the back of the library, with one pale leg thrown over the armrest and holding an ancient-looking book in one hand. Her other arm rested comfortably across the backrest of the armchair as she twirled one curl of hair around her forefinger and considered her.

Hermione tracked the movement with her eyes for a moment before looking back up and meeting Bellatrix’s dark brown eyes, and they stared at each other in total silence for a few moments. She couldn’t decipher the look on her face at all because the book she was holding covered half of her face, and her eyes were narrowed and gave nothing away except maybe irritation, but then again the raven-haired witch was always annoyed by something. This time though, she had an inkling her annoyance was directed at her.

“Cat got your tongue?” the dark witch drawled, tilting her head to the side.

“Uhhh…” Hermione started and berated herself for not knowing what to say, but she was cut off by Bellatrix snapping her book shut, the sound reverberating throughout the room, leaving it on the armchair and standing up.

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat upon seeing what the witch was wearing and she was totally taken, once again, by her sheer beauty. Bellatrix had shed her usual corseted black dress for a black silky nightdress with a plunging v-shaped neckline trimmed with delicate lace that drew great attention to her perfectly sculpted breasts…and the purplish marks scattered across her skin. Purplish marks that were her handiwork. Her raven locks were flowing freely down her shoulders like a silky waterfall that seemed to reflect the little light there was in the library from the fireplace.

She swallowed and tried not to stare at the woman’s cleavage, but she couldn’t help it: the black colour of her nightdress was in strong contrast with her ivory complexion, and it also didn’t help that the nightdress stopped mid-thigh, showing off her shapely pale limbs that made her remember what it had felt like to have them wrapped around her.

The room suddenly felt very hot and she cleared her throat, looking back up at Bellatrix, and she immediately adverted her gaze when she noticed a hint of a smirk on the older woman’s plump dark red lips.

Bellatrix eyeballed her with something akin to amusement before throwing an equally as dark robe over herself, leaving it open, and taking a few steps forward. She turned to Pinky who was still standing beside Hermione.

“Thank you, Pinky,” she said in a gentle voice that surprised Hermione and had her look back at her in shock, “Why don’t you prepare dinner for us? I’m _starving_ ,” she finished, her eyes snapping back to Hermione as she uttered the last word and looked her up and down.

Her eyes bulged at the innuendo and she shook her head, feeling herself flush again. _Does she have no shame?!_ she wondered to herself. She couldn’t believe she had just made such a suggestive remark in front of her house-elf. Speaking of whom, she looked down at Pinky, who was bobbing her head up and down and grinning up at Bellatrix, apparently not having caught on to her double-entendre.

“Pinky is happy to!” the small house-elf squeaked, “what should Pinky make the Mistress and her friend, Miss Hermione?”

“Friend,” Bellatrix scoffed and glared at Hermione, arching one perfectly shaped eyebrow, “just make my favourite, Pinky, that will do.”

Pinky gave a small nod, shot one last look at Hermione, and disappeared in a cloud of dust.

Bellatrix turned to Hermione after that. To say the tension was palpable would be an understatement: you could feel the pressure of it rising as the seconds ticked away. It was more uncomfortable than Hermione had expected, and it wouldn’t have taken a knife to be able to cut through it.

Bellatrix was practically looking daggers at her now, and Hermione physically recoiled and shrunk under the older witch’s intense gaze. She swallowed hard. She had forgotten how unusually fast Bellatrix’s moods could change and how she could go from being somewhat pleasant to being furious in the blink of an eye, the reason for the sudden change not even being apparent. But did there need to be a reason in the first place? She was unpredictable at the best of times and could fly off the handle if you so much as looked at her, and it threw Hermione off.

Still, she held her head high and met dark brown, steely and smouldering eyes that were calculating her head-on and opened her mouth to speak when she was interrupted by the dark witch again.

“My, my,”, she started derisively, looking her up and down again, “looking as muddy as our blood, I see, _muddy_ ” and finished scathingly.

Hermione stiffened. The words were like a slap to the face and she had actually physically jerked away when she heard them spitting from the raven-haired witch’s lips. The slap would have hurt much less than what she was feeling right now. Granted, this wasn’t the first time that Bellatrix was making a reference to her ‘blood status’, but the last time she had done so and had genuinely meant what she said was at the height of the war and during one of their many arguments in the days following their encounter at Shell Cottage. Although she had used the slur again last night, it had mainly been because she had provoked her, but now? She hadn’t done anything to prompt such hurtful words.

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped and clenched her fists so hard that she felt her nails puncture the soft skin of her palms.

“Oh, look, the mudbaby talks!” the dark witch exclaimed dramatically and smirked evilly, “There’s that Gryffindor courage.”

Anger flared inside Hermione and she stepped forward. “My blood is _not_ dirty!” she yelled, jamming a finger in the middle of Bellatrix’s chest with each word, “You saw it yourself! How can you still hold on to such beliefs after everything?! I have a name: Hermione!”

Bellatrix looked up at her with a snarl etched on her face. “Get out of my face, whelp,” she cautioned and scrunched her nose, “You _reek_.”

She massaged between her eyebrows and pinched the bridge of her nose. What did she expect when she made the decision to come here? That Bellatrix would be in a good mood and it would go smoothly? She hadn’t changed one bit. She was still the same infuriating witch.

“What the bloody hell crawled up your arse and died?!”

“What the bloody hell crawled up _your_ arse and died?” Bellatrix mimicked, “Would you look at yourself? You’re all muddied and dirty, you look _disgusting_!” she barked and threw her hands up.

Hermione looked down at herself. She was indeed still covered in dirt, she had forgotten to cast another spell on herself once she had reached the Manor, and she winced when she ran a hand through her tangled hair, but there was no reason to be so cruel about it.

She looked back at Bellatrix and suddenly realised how small she was, how much shorter she was. She thought of her always wearing high heels no matter the situation, always presenting as big a version of herself as she could. Without her usual heels, she stood barely five foot two. And it infuriated her how much power and strength such a short person could hold. She could practically feel her blood boiling as Bellatrix looked up at her with so much confidence and self-satisfaction; how did the witch always manage to get under her skin so easily?

She growled and before she knew it, she had thrown her bag down and lunged herself at Bellatrix, who for once was caught off guard and didn’t react as quickly, and knocked her to the ground. She could’ve taken out her wand and cursed her, but Bellatrix was a far better duelist than her and Hermione knew she would never get the upper hand that way.

Hermione’s weight collapsed on top of the dark witch, and she pinned her to the ground with her legs on either side of her slender waist, and one hand holding the front of her nightdress. She raised her hand, intending to slap or punch the older woman, she didn’t know, when Bellatrix recovered from her initial shock and quickly grabbed her wrist in a death grip. The raven-haired witch bucked against her and they wrestled on the ground for a moment, trying and failing to kick each other, before she gained enough strength to flip their positions, so Hermione was the one being pinned to the cold ground now, her arms above her head.

She tried to push her off her, but Bellatrix pressed her harder against the ground, her grip around her wrists tightening, and for a second, Hermione was thrust back into a similar situation. For a moment, she was back on the shiny floor of the drawing room in Malfoy Manor, and her arm throbbed at the painful memory of Bellatrix carving into her skin with a mad cackle.

A gasp and a warm breath on her lips pulled her out of that memory. She blinked several times before focusing back on the woman on top of her, who was breathing heavily and looking down at her with a frown on her face, seemingly having followed her train of thought. Bellatrix’s grip on her wrists lessened and she leaned back a little, gazing at her with an unreadable expression in her dark brown eyes, all previous anger seeming to leave her body.

They stared at each other in total silence, not moving an inch. This time, the tension between them was different and charged with the heat between them. Hermione’s blood pounded throughout her veins; Bellatrix’s robe had fallen from her shoulders during their struggle, and Hermione’s eyes fell from her dark brown eyes, drifting down her face, following the line of her sharp jaw and travelling down her pale neck. Once again, she found herself staring at the love bites on her neck and the crescent marks on her shoulders, images from last night playing in her mind. She gulped and heard, rather than saw, Bellatrix smirk.

And she almost flinched when Bellatrix suddenly reached out and traced the forgotten wound on her cheek, the blood having long dried. Despite herself, a tremor ran through her like a shudder passing over the sea at the somewhat gentle touch, which was in stark contrast with her previous behaviour.

“I don’t hide mine, dove.”

The tension in Hermione’s shoulders eased a little at the use of the pet name.

“Yeah, not that anyone would see them anyway,” Hermione retorted and regretted it immediately when Bellatrix bristled and her eyes flashed.

The dark witch opened her mouth and-

“Mistress Bellatrix?” a tiny voice squeaked, and both of their heads snapped to where the voice came from.

Pinky was back in the library and looking at them with wide nervous eyes, not knowing what to say or do.

“What is it, Pinky?” Bellatrix grumbled and dusted herself off as she got up, adjusting her robe and swinging her hair from her face and her shoulders. She didn’t even bother look at Hermione or reach out a hand to help her stand up, and Hermione could only stare dumbly as she straightened up.

“D-dinner is ready, Mistress Bellatrix,” Pinky stammered and nervously shuffled her feet back and forth.

The dark witch nodded. “See to it that our _guest_ ” she said tersely, shooting a glance at Hermione, “looks presentable while I go and get changed.”

And she swiftly left the room without another word, leaving Hermione standing there, dumbfounded. What had just happened? Bellatrix was such in a volatile mood today, even more so than usual, and she didn’t know what to do or think at this point. But really, her behaviour shouldn’t surprise her; she had a feeling the raven-haired woman wouldn’t make things easy for her before she came here, and she was proving her right.

She shook her head.

“Is Miss Hermione okay?” Pinky asked nervously and worriedly.

“Yes, yes,” she replied absently and grabbed her bag from the floor, “um, could you show me to the bathroom, Pinky?”

“Yes, if the missus can follow me!” Pinky nodded happily and left the library.

She followed the small house-elf down the hall, and they stopped in front of a door on the right end. Pinky turned to her.

“Will Miss Hermione be needing anything?” Pinky asked nervously. “The Mistress said-“

“No, no, I’m fine, Pinky,” she interrupted, “thank you.”

Pinky hesitated for a moment, but eventually nodded. “The dining hall is on the first floor, Miss Hermione.”

Dining _hall_?! Could the Black family be any more dramatic? she thought to herself.

“Thank you, Pinky,” she smiled warmly and opened the door to the bathroom.

The bathroom was mostly traditional, but it was still more spacious than the average bathroom with a separate shower, a soaking tub, and a series of shelves with a bunch of towels and toiletries next to the sink.

She set her bag on the ledge and looked at herself in the mirror. She cringed hard. She was a bit flushed and there were some dirt smudges on her face, and also dried blood from the cut on her cheek, but worst of all was her hair: it was dishevelled, slightly damp, and she could even see some specks of mud and broken twigs from the forest. No wonder Bellatrix thought she looked terrible.

She took out her vine wood wand again and cast a few spells on herself, watching her reflection in the mirror as the dirt cleared itself up and the twigs vanished. Her hair now looked cleaner and she ran her hand through it to give it a quick brush and more volume. Next, she passed her wand over her cheek, wordlessly healing the cut, and delved into her bag. She took out her concealer and lipstick from her small makeup bag, applying some of the creamy substance under her eyes and a new coat of red on her lips. Finally, she turned on the faucet and splashed some water on her neck and chest.

She looked at herself in the mirror one last time, making sure she looked ‘presentable’ as Bellatrix put it, and smoothed her clothes before she left the bathroom.

After a few minutes of wandering in the Manor, she found herself in a large room with a floor-to-ceiling window, the heavy dark green curtains drawn across it. A fireplace stood at one end, wood crackling softly beneath a marble mantel, and a seating area had been arranged in front of the fire. Like the entrance hall, the walls in this room were covered in tapestries and an expensive chandelier hung from the high ceiling. An impressive mahogany table stood in the centre and it could’ve easily sat over thirty people, but the extra place settings had been removed, leaving only two.

This room in particular reeked of wealth and money and she assumed this had to be the dining hall Pinky had mentioned. She could easily imagine pureblood balls being held here, and she could envision Bellatrix, not the social type, sitting in front of the fireplace by herself, grumbling to herself about being forced to dress up and interact with other purebloods.

“You’re going to end up growing roots if you stand there any longer.”

Startled out of her reverie, Hermione looked to the far-left corner of the dining hall where Bellatrix was standing and watching her once again. She had changed back to her corseted dress and was nursing a glass of Firewhiskey. Her heels clicked across the marble floor as she walked towards the mahogany table, swirling the amber liquid in her glass.

“Well?” Bellatrix snapped once she took a seat at the head of the long table.

Not in the mood to argue with the older woman, Hermione complied and quickly made her way to the table, finally taking off her coat and sitting to her left. As she did so, she couldn’t help but muse over how strange it felt to be sitting at a dining table in a pureblood manor and to be sitting there next to Bellatrix of all people.

Never in her wildest imaginations would she have ever believed that she would have dinner with Bellatrix Black in Black Manor. It felt like another universe entirely…

Their moment of prolonged silence was interrupted when Bellatrix snapped her fingers and the food instantly appeared on their empty plates, the action reminding her of the meals at Hogwarts. She looked down at her plate: Pinky had made shepherd’s pie. Was this Bellatrix’s favourite? She remembered her telling Pinky to make her favourite meal. A small smile formed on her lips and she glanced at Bellatrix out of the corner of her eye.

The raven-haired witch was quietly eating and occasionally taking a sip of her drink, seemingly in deep thought as she didn’t even look at Hermione once, a deep scowl etched on her face and her gaze fixed on her plate.

And it suddenly hit her how lonely Bellatrix was. How many days and nights had she spent in this large room, in this gigantic manor, all by herself? Sure, she had Pinky, but it wasn’t the same as being in the company of an actual human being, not that a house-elf wasn’t great company; Bellatrix obviously appreciated the little elf and talked to her, but Pinky was magically bound to her and was her servant in a way, so they weren’t on an equal footing. Besides, she had only returned to Black Manor recently, she had said so last night. When was the last time the dark witch had had any human contact? When was the last time she had talked to someone who could truly understand her? Twelve years was a very long time to spend on your own, and she couldn’t believe the older witch had, for some reason, decided to inflict that upon herself.

Her heart painfully constricted in her chest at the thought of the dark witch being all alone, and there was nothing she wanted more in that moment than to reach out and talk to her, but she didn’t know what to say. What could they possibly talk about? They had plenty to talk about all those years ago despite the war – Transfiguration, Ancient Runes, Bellatrix’s knowledge of the Dark Arts, Hermione’s ambitions – but now? Now, nothing was the same. Now, everything had changed. She was no longer the young Gryffindor who was trying to save the world, and she was no longer the Death Eater who terrified the entire wizarding world – everyone thought her dead. She had dedicated her life to serving Voldemort before, but now she had no purpose at all. They had both changed so much over the years, and it hurt to think that she knew so little about Bellatrix.

What was her favourite Hogwarts memory? What was her favourite pastime? What was her favourite book? Did she like Quidditch? What was her childhood like besides what she already knew? There was so much she wanted to know about her, about her past, but she didn’t know where to begin. Besides, they had so much to discuss and sort out before she could even start to ask those questions. For starters, she _needed_ to know what she had been up to these past twelve years.

She had thought long and hard about it, but she couldn’t come up with anything. Bellatrix could’ve done anything since the war, there were plenty of possibilities and she was the only one who could provide the answers, but she was at a loss as to how to even broach the subject. She knew the witch would just withdraw into herself if she _demanded_ answers and tried to force her hand, but she also knew they wouldn’t get anywhere unless she asked. She took a bite of her shepherd’s pie and looked at the former Death Eater again.

And she jumped when hazel met dark brown.

“Good gracious, I can _hear_ the cogs turning in your head,” the raven-haired witch complained, then looked down at her plate, “you’ve barely eaten.”

“I… I’m not that hungry,” she mumbled and pushed her plate away.

“You know, Pinky will be personally offended that you’ve barely touched the food she prepared. God knows how she’ll punish herself.”

Hermione’s eyes widened and she paled, quickly pulling her plate back towards herself, which prompted Bellatrix to throw her head back and loudly cackle.

“Relax, pet,” she teased and rolled her eyes, “I’m joking, you fool.”

“You’re a _menace_ ,” she hissed.

Bellatrix cackled even more at that and downed her glass in one go before magically refilling it and standing up. She cleared the table with one wave of her hand and looked down at her.

“Want some?” she asked, raising her glass.

“I’ll pass, thank you,” she shook her head and stood up as well.

“Afraid you can’t handle yourself around me, Granger?” she smirked.

“I can hold my liquor, thank you very much,” she scoffed, “I just want to be sober when we have _that_ conversation,” she crossed her arms and regarded the witch critically, “and I don’t think you should be drinking either.”

The dark witch frowned and pursed her lips. “Watch it, whelp,” she warned, “you will not tell me what to do in my own house.”

“I’m just saying,” she countered and held her hands up, “I don’t need liquid courage,” she smirked.

She watched with amusement as Bellatrix took the bait and bared her teeth. “Don’t think so highly of yourself, rat,” she snapped and turned away, “Come.”

Hermione chuckled and followed the older woman to the couch in front of the fireplace. She sat down at the far end, intending to put as much distance as possible between them; though as soon as Bellatrix sat, the cushions tilted, bringing them closer.

She watched for a moment as the dancing fire reflected in her dark brown eyes, and her pulse pounded in her ears, throbbing through her entire body like a drum beat when the witch leaned closer, her hot, Firewhiskey breath ghosting over her cheek.

“I don’t bite, dove.”

The whisper, as delicate as gossamer, sent shivers flowing through her body – humming and collecting in her abdomen – and she jumped to her feet.

“Stop that!” she growled, “it might have worked last night,” and her voice went up an octave at that, “but I won’t get distracted this time! I won’t let you further damage my relationship with Ron!”

“Oh trust me, you don’t need me for that,” she countered, an evil smile forming on her plump lips, “you were already doing a great job.”

“What?”

“Did I stutter, pet?”

Incredulous, Hermione opened her mouth, but nothing came out except for a strangled sound, which only made Bellatrix smile wider.

“You know why I’m here!” she stomped her foot like a petulant child.

“God, you’re such a buzzkill,” the dark witch snarled in distaste, “I know exactly why you’re here, dearie, I don’t need to use Legilimency to hear your thoughts.”

Hermione only stared at her with narrowed eyes.

“Sit down.”

“Bellatrix, I swear if you try anything-”

“I said, sit down,” she snapped with a frustrated sigh and set her glass down on the coffee table. “And stop your screaming; you sound like a Mandrake. It’s unbecoming.”

“You’re one to talk,” she mumbled under her breath but still loud enough for Bellatrix to hear her, and sat back down, crossing her arms and legs.

“What did you just say?” she snapped irritably.

“You heard me,” she replied confidently and held her head high.

“My patience is reaching its limit, _muddy_ , don’t test me.”

The tension began to rise again, and there was a pause.

Hermione turned her head and wordlessly stared at Bellatrix, who was watching the flames in the hearth crackling merrily away, her jaw clenched, and fists curled into fists, gripping the fabric of her sleeves.

“Bellatrix, you promised-” she groused a moment later when she still didn’t say anything.

“There’s one condition,” she eventually drawled and turned to her. Hermione raised an eyebrow. _What now_? she thought to herself as her eyes darted across her face. “For each question you ask, I get to ask one as well,” she finished challengingly.


	6. Honesty is the Best Policy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione finally gets to ask some of her questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all the comments and kudos! Hope you enjoy this new chapter!

_The fist clenched round my heart  
loosens a little, and I gasp  
brightness; but it tightens  
again. When have I ever not loved  
the pain of love? But this has moved_

_past love to mania. This has the strong  
clench of the madman, this is  
gripping the ledge of unreason, before  
plunging howling into the abyss._

_Hold hard then, heart. This way at least you live._

The Fist, Derek Walcott

The seconds ticked away, and Hermione could only stare wordlessly, incredulous and eyes wide, as the dark witch just raised an eyebrow, a devious smile playing on her lips.

 _Is she serious?_ she thought. _She can’t be…_

And she voiced it aloud. “Are you for real?!” she snapped. “This isn’t a game, Bellatrix!”

The dark witch rolled her eyes and leaned forward to take her glass, refilling it with a wordless wave of the hand again.

“What? You thought you were just going to take without giving back?” she tutted, “For the Brightest Witch of her Age, you sure aren’t bright, pet.”

Bellatrix knew calling her intelligence into question would raise her hackles, and it did. Hermione’s nostrils flared and her eyebrows twitched, and she took a deep breath. _Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm, don’t take the bait_ , she internally chanted to herself.

“God, you’re _impossible_! Must everything be a game to you? Can’t you be serious for once in your life?!”

“Oh, shush, pet,” Bellatrix hummed after taking a sip from her glass, “I’m just trying to ease the atmosphere, you’re so tense, you know? Loosen up a little.”

“Yeah, I wonder why,” she shot back dryly. “Are you done?”

“Is this your first question?”

She decided right then and there that she had just had about enough of her petulant behaviour. She raked a hand through her hair and all fight left her body as her shoulders slumped, the tiredness of the day catching up with her and weighing her down. She shifted on the couch.

“You know what? I can’t do this anymore,” she started, and Bellatrix’s glass stopped midway to her mouth and her smirk slowly dropped from her face at the serious tone in her voice, “I’m tired. I’m tired of the mind games. I’m tired of you taking me for granted, thinking you can just come in and out of my life as you please. I’m not done,” she snapped, and her voice rose slightly when Bellatrix opened her mouth, “I risked everything all those years ago when you came to me, and I’m risking everything again by coming here. Everything! I may lose my friends, my boyfriend,” she noticed Bellatrix grip her glass and her knuckles turn white, “and I may lose my career if this were to get out! I lied to _everyone_ for you, and you don’t even have the basic decency to respect me and tell me what happened.”

Hermione was breathing heavily when she was done and she could feel tears start to well up in her eyes, and she closed her eyes for a second to keep them at bay. She wouldn’t cry in front of Bellatrix again. She would only use them against her. She shouldn’t have come here; it was a mistake. Obviously, Bellatrix had no intention of telling her anything, she merely wanted to toy with her _again_ , and she felt stupid for even thinking they would get anywhere.

When she opened her eyes again, Bellatrix was looking at her, her eyes wide and a startled look on her face. Speechless. It was the only way to describe the dark witch right now. The great Bellatrix Black, who was usually so quick with the comebacks, was speechless. Her dark brown eyes darted across her face.

“Honesty is all I want from you, Bellatrix, you owe me that at least,” she muttered and stood up, “but I can see that it’s not going to happen, so I’m going to leave.”

After the words exited her mouth, she shot one last look at the raven-haired woman and went to walk past her, but she didn’t get too far when she heard the glass hit the coffee table with a loud thud and felt a cold hand tightly grab her wrist; nails digging painfully into her skin and jerking her to a stop, almost yanking her back.

“Wait.”

Hermione spun around, looking down at Bellatrix with exasperation. “What?” she hissed and tried to tug her wrist out of her grip, but the older witch only gripped it tighter and the look on her face gave her pause. Was it uncertainty? It was so sudden and fleeting that it was hard to tell.

“Don’t leave.”

 _Was she pleading with her?_ She shook her head. _No, Bellatrix Black didn’t beg anyone._

“And why not? All you do is either insult me or make fun of me.”

“I-“ Bellatrix looked to the side and sighed with frustration and Hermione frowned, “Fine, fine. I’ll answer your questions. Sit down.”

When Hermione still didn’t budge and kept looking at her with mistrust, the dark witch groaned and harshly pulled at her hand, making her stumble and fall against her. She gasped and reached out to break her fall and ended up grabbing her shoulders for support, her face inches away from hers, and Bellatrix’s hand settling around her waist to hold her. She could feel the older woman’s breath on her face, and she shuddered, taking in her scent of cinnamon, freshly fallen rain, pine trees, and something that was quintessentially her as well as the added scent of Firewhiskey.

Their eyes met and they stared at each other. Hermione found herself absorbed by the coffee dark swirls of brown in the dark witch’s eyes – they were rich and bold and drew her more into her gaze. She almost didn’t notice when the fingers from Bellatrix’s other hand trailed across her cheek to tuck a strand of hair away from her face, and her breath hitched when she offered her a small smile, a real one this time unlike her taunting and devious smiles.

Her eyes widened in absolute horror when she felt Bellatrix chuckle against the hard material of her corset, and she jerked away. This was precisely the reason she was furious in the first place; the dark witch simply distracted her with small gestures like this, and she made sure to put some distance between her and the other woman again when she plopped down onto the couch.

Bellatrix almost looked relieved for a fraction of a second, but she didn’t have the chance to think much of it because it was gone in the blink of an eye and she quickly averted her eyes, so that now she was facing her side profile. The raven-haired woman protectively crossed her arms over her chest and thoughtfully gnawed at her bottom lip, her gaze getting lost in the dancing flames again.

“Before we start,” she started in a low voice, “I still want to ask my own questions.”

“Why are you even doing this?” she sighed.

“If I’m putting myself on the spot, then it’s only fair that you share some things as well,” she countered, raising her chin in that haughty way.

“Putting yourself on the sp-“, she spluttered and sighed, “I’m just worried for you, Bellatrix.”

“I can take care of myself,” she snorted.

“I know, but I still want to know,” then she sighed again and admitted defeat, “Fine.”

“Deal sealed, then,” she gritted her teeth and Hermione knew she was having an internal struggle with herself but in that moment, she couldn’t find it in her to feel sorry for her. She owed her this much after everything she had put her through.

“What do you want to know?” Bellatrix eventually asked, not taking her eyes away from the crackling fire.

“Everything.”

“That isn’t a question,” she snapped, then forced herself back into remaining calm, “Be more specific.”

Countless questions were roaming inside Hermione’s head. There were so many things she wanted to know. She’d better start with the most pressing one.

“How did you survive?”

“Hm, straight to the point, I see.”

Bellatrix looked at her out of the corner of her eye, and Hermione pointedly raised one eyebrow at her. The dark witch rolled her eyes and shifted on the couch, so she was just slightly facing her.

“Let’s just get this clear: I would’ve made quick work of that old bat Weasley and she would’ve joined _Freddie_ if I didn’t get _distracted_ ,” she snarled with hatred and narrowed her eyes at Hermione, who flinched at the venom that dripped with every word that left her mouth, “See,” she continued, “had the hag cursed anyone else, they would have died on the spot because the curse she used is meant to crush your heart in your chest and cause you to internally bleed out. Not so good coming from the supposed ‘light’ side now, is it?” she snapped and stopped to gauge Hermione’s reaction.

Hermione was honestly at a loss for words here. She didn’t know what she had been expecting, but certainly not this. She thought Molly had simply hit Bellatrix with a curse similar to the Killing Curse, but this? This was beyond her wildest imaginations. This was on the same level of cruelty as Sectumsempra, and she didn’t know what shocked her the most: the fact that Molly, one of the kindest people she had ever met, even knew such a curse and had used it, no matter who the target was, or the fact that Bellatrix had somehow survived. But she shouldn’t be surprised: Bellatrix _was_ a warrior after all, that was what her name meant, and if anyone could survive something like this, it would be her.

She opened her mouth, but Bellatrix beat her to it. “Now, I won’t lie, even I thought ‘this is it’ for a moment, but let’s just say luck was on my side that day,” she finished with a mysterious glint in her eye.

“What do you mean?”

“Ah, ah,” the older witch clicked her tongue and held up her forefinger between them, “I believe it’s my turn now, pet.”

“Bellatrix!” she admonished, “You didn’t even-“

“Relax, duckling, you will get your answers. There’s no rush.”

 _Actually, there is. I don’t have all night, I have to go home_ , she almost replied but thought better of it at the last second, knowing Bellatrix wouldn’t react well at all. In fact, she would get even more stubborn, if such a thing was even possible, so she just waved her hand, wordlessly telling her to go on. If she was honest with herself, she was curious to know what Bellatrix wanted to ask. She was sure she already knew everything there was to know about her since she had supposedly been watching her, but you never knew with her, and she hoped and prayed she wouldn’t ask any indiscreet questions.

“How are Cissy and Draco?”

The question threw her off completely. She had expected a lot of uncomfortable questions about Ron and their relationship, but this one hadn’t even crossed her mind. It came as a surprise but made sense: from the little time they had spent together during the war, Hermione could tell that the only people Bellatrix cared for were her sister and nephew. And by asking this question, she had also just inadvertently answered one of her own. So, Narcissa had no idea her sister was still alive after all, and it surprised her to some extent considering how close they were. Had Bellatrix really spent all this time alone?

“No, she doesn’t know, and for obvious reasons that I don’t need to spell out for you,” the older woman barked, startling Hermione out of her thoughts. “Now, answer my question.”

_How-_

Hermione’s eyes widened when she realised she had just read her thoughts. She had completely forgotten Bellatrix was an accomplished Legilimens, and she almost yelled at her for intruding on her thoughts like that.

“Your thoughts are very loud, and you’re too predictable,” she growled, growing more agitated by the second, “My patience is reaching its limit, pet, start talking or I might stop being so merciful.” There was a pause. “Unless… that’s what you want,” she smirked.

Hermione rolled her eyes and snorted. “You wish.” Bellatrix raised an eyebrow. “Anyway,” she started and looked away, “They’re fine… I guess. Harry secured their pardon after the war as I assume you already know,” she looked back at Bellatrix, who nodded, “Lucius-“

“I don’t care about his sorry arse,” was the terse retort.

“Well… Despite Harry’s support, everyone wasn’t as accepting after the war as you can imagine, so it took quite a few years for everything to go back to ‘normal’ and for everyone to leave them alone. I think Draco was the one who took the brunt, though, because unlike your sister, he did become a Death Eater and did contribute to Dumbledore’s death,” she stopped when she noticed how hard Bellatrix clenched her jaw and fists at the mention of the Death Eaters. “I… I can stop if you’d like,” she mumbled.

“No.”

“I- Uh… He started working at the Ministry, but obviously he wasn’t let into the ‘higher’ Departments at first, so he had to start at the bottom in the Department of Magical Sports and Games, but- but he rose in ranks when people finally realised he was just a victim of circumstances,” she hurried upon noticing the look on Bellatrix’s face, “he works in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement now, and he had a son, Scorpius, with Astoria Greengrass four years ago.”

The tension in Bellatrix’s shoulders visibly lessened and she hummed. “And Cissy?”

She chose not to point out it was technically her turn to ask a question now. “I… I can’t really say much about Narcissa. I’ve only seen her on a few occasions and we’re mostly cordial to each other, but I can’t exactly tell you how she dealt with everything. The only thing I can say with certainty is that she was very upset after the war and was barely seen out of Malfoy Manor. She… Uh… She also reconciled with… with Andromeda,” she finished and there was a slight tremor in her voice.

She instantly regretted her words as soon as they left her mouth when a myriad of emotions flickered like ghosts across the pale face in front of her. She watched as Bellatrix considered her words and digested them; she watched as disbelief turned to anger, then to betrayal and then to something she recognised as hurt, before the older witch tried unsuccessfully to get her mask of indifference in place. The sight was a kick in the gut for Hermione and it brought tears to her eyes. She wanted to reach out and comfort her, but she didn’t think now was the time to be ‘affectionate’ and she wasn’t sure that time would ever come one day; she knew with unerring instinct that that would be the last thing Bellatrix wanted right now, and it might only make things worse.

And she had also deliberately kept some distance between them because she knew that if she got too close to her, she wouldn’t be able to think straight and she needed all her wits right now for this conversation, so she quashed the urge and did nothing but wait for Bellatrix to say something.

The dark witch ran a hand through her ebony mane and took her glass again, flinging her head back and swallowing the content in one gulp. A pink tongue darted out to lick plump lips, and a shudder went through Hermione, her eyes following the movement.

Then, she rested her elbow on the armrest and leaned her head on her hand, looking at her through heavy-lidded eyes, the weight of her gaze like a soft caress as it moved over her face, touching on her lips before returning to her eyes. And when she eventually spoke, the tone of her voice gave nothing away, so there was no way to tell if she was angry or upset.

“Very well. Your turn.”

Hermione hesitated for a second, and it must’ve shown on her face because when Bellatrix spoke again, her voice was dripping with sarcasm. “What happened to all that Gryffindor courage? I know you’re bursting with questions.”

“Okay…” she tiredly rubbed at her temples, “Can we just stop beating around the bush, Bellatrix? Don’t make this any more painful for you and for me… What really happened?”

“Painful?” she laughed hollowly, “I’m having so much fun,” and with that, she downed another glass.

Hermione had honestly lost count of how many glasses of Firewhiskey the older witch had tossed back at this point, but she could tell she was getting a bit tipsy by the way she was slightly slurring her words. And she didn’t like it at all. She had never seen Bellatrix drunk, and she didn’t think she wanted to. She finally reached out and took the glass out of her hand before she could take another sip, and she rolled her eyes at the sound of protest that left her lips.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

“You’ve had enough. Answer the question,” she hissed and set the glass down, waving her hand so the amber liquid vanished.

“My, my, the lion got its claws out! Can’t say I’m complaining.”

“Bellatrix,” she warned.

The raven-haired witch snarled and stood up, walking over to the window, peeking through the curtains for a moment. Hermione lost her train of thought for a second as she was enthralled by the dark curls flowing down the older witch’s back, stopping just above her waist. Was it a trick of the light or was the dark witch shivering? Before she could properly ponder it, Bellatrix started talking.

“The only reason I didn’t _die_ ,” she started and turned around, “is this,” she finished, holding something between her fingers.

Hermione frowned and stood up, reaching Bellatrix in a few short strides. From this close, she could see that it was the bird skull necklace that she always wore. _How could a simple necklace stop a deadly curse?_ she thought. _Unless…_ She looked up questioningly at her.

“This,” the dark witch explained, looking down at the bird skull between her fingers, “is no ordinary necklace. This is a Black family heirloom gifted to me for my seventeenth birthday. This is a centuries-old heirloom passed down from generation to generation, and it contains a powerful spell that protects the wearer from any curse meant to fatally injure them. So,” she smirked, “you see, purebloods have their own ways of protecting themselves. We don’t always turn to Dark magic.”

Hermione was gobsmacked, to say the least. This made a lot of sense. She had often wondered to herself why Bellatrix wore the necklace at all times and what was so special about it, but had never asked because there had been greater things to worry about at the time. She had at some point entertained the idea that it could be a Horcrux and it had seemed logical to her at first considering Bellatrix was Voldemort’s best lieutenant, but she had then discarded the idea entirely. Voldemort would have never shared his deepest secret with anyone, not even his inner circle, lest they decided to betray him like Sirius’s brother had done; besides, the creation of a Horcrux mutilated your soul and changed your appearance, and Bellatrix had always retained her great beauty, even if she had looked a bit hollowed out after her escape from Azkaban.

No, Bellatrix’s explanation made a lot more sense. It was such a clever and inconspicuous way of protecting oneself. The magic that pureblood families used had always fascinated her, each family tended to have their own spells and curses, and she would have to look it up now that Bellatrix had just confirmed it for her.

“Phoenix shit, pet.”

“Wha-“

She gasped when she felt a thin and cold finger push at her chin, snapping her mouth shut.

“You’ll catch Phoenix shit if you keep your mouth open like that much longer,” she chuckled.

Phoenix shit. She had never heard of that phrase before and it was surprising actually, because she could hear Luna saying something like this, and she laughed to herself. Bellatrix and Luna were polar opposites, and she found it amusing that they could use similar expressions. She chose not to point it out; Bellatrix would definitely not take it well at all to be compared to someone like Luna.

“That’s- that’s impressive magic,” she spluttered, “whoever gifted that to you… you owe them.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Bellatrix dismissed.

Hermione half-expected her to ask another question but was pleasantly surprised when Bellatrix just carried on, the alcohol she had taken seemingly loosening her tongue a bit, and she didn’t know whether she should be grateful for it.

“Anyway, long story short: I got my hands on a wand, Apparated to one of our family homes in Northern France, and Splinched myself,” Hermione winced at that, having seen Ron Splinch himself before, it had taken weeks for him to heal, “I called Pinky, had her transfigure one of the bodies to look like me and administer them Polyjuice Potion for good measure. End of story,” she clapped her hands and looked at her pointedly, “Not the grand story of survival you were expecting, I’m sure.”

No, this was everything. Human transfiguration was highly advanced magic; they had practised it in their Sixth Year at Hogwarts and very few of them had been able to produce satisfying results. She remembered Harry not managing to change one of his eyebrows back to its original colour. She shouldn’t be surprised, though, given how Elf magic was very powerful magic.

Her heart ached at the thought of Bellatrix lying all alone in a pool of her own blood after Splinching herself and waiting for Pinky to heal her, but this was all the explanation that she needed. It explained a lot: it explained the scar on her chest, it explained Pinky’s presence in her life and why Bellatrix was somewhat nice to her, it could also explain why the scar on her forearm hurt so much in the days following the Final Battle, it explained-

“Augustus Rookwood,” she breathed out when realisation dawned on her.

“What?”

Hermione looked Bellatrix in the eye, her voice a bit more forceful, “You transfigured-“

“I didn’t, Pinky did,” she interjected as though trying to talk herself out of any responsibility.

“You or Pinky, whatever,” she huffed, “it was Augustus Rookwood, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, why?”

“Why?! Bellatrix, this explains why he went missing after the Final Battle and why the Aurors were unable to find him!” she exclaimed.

She felt a sense of relief at finally knowing how she had come out of this alive and where she had gone after the Final Battle, even though she could tell she was still keeping a lot to herself, but she also felt her stomach twist with disgust at the thought of it possibly being Augustus Rookwood she had hugged to herself the night after the Battle.

“Oh, who cares? He was a duffer! He was of no use to the cause after the First War!”

“No, you don’t get it!” she spat, “I don’t care that he’s dead! I watched the Order dispose of the Death Eaters’ bodies! I watched them dispose of your- what I thought to be your body, and it _killed_ me to know I couldn’t do anything to stop it and have a proper burial for you like the people who died fighting against Voldemort!” Bellatrix’s eyes widened a fraction at the use of his name, “Because that’s the least you deserved for everything that you’ve done to help us! And… And the night after the Battle, I-“ she gulped, a lump forming in her throat and tears filling her eyes, “I went to see you in- in the Great Hall because I couldn’t _bear_ the thought of you being _dead_! And I-“

She stopped and felt her bottom lip tremble at the painful memory of holding Bellatrix’s unmoving body against her and uttering those three words to her in her moment of epiphany amidst her grief.

“Oh God, you’re not going to cry are you?” Bellatrix scoffed with a hint of contempt in her voice. “Oh, you are, how sweet!” she continued sickeningly when Hermione looked at her through bleary eyes and quickly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

“How can you be so-“ she started but was cut off.

“What? Heartless? Cruel? Ruthless? Merciless? A monster? I’ve heard it all before, save your breath,” she sneered, “You’re in no position to preach to me about cruelty, girlie. What would Won-Won say if he knew his _girlfriend_ is spending her night with the big bad Death Eater? Hm?” she tsk-ed, “Talk about being heartless, pet.”

“I- Don’t-“

“Shut your filthy mouth, you did your talking and poking around, now it’s my turn,” she growled and advanced menacingly towards her.

“You can hardly call that poking around! You owed me this much, and I have yet to ask the bigger question here! What have you been up to?!”

“I said, shut it!” she barked and pushed at her, making her stumble a few steps back, “To hell with your questions! I’ve been very lenient with you so far, don’t push it!”

“Lenient? You call that being lenient?! You’re acting like a petulant child who won’t admit what they did was wrong! I’m not answering any of your questions until you’ve answered mine!”

They stared at each other, both furious, both breathing hard, and both beginning to wonder if it would’ve been better if she hadn’t come at all. It would’ve hurt less and would’ve saved a lot of energy and time.

There was once a time when she would’ve cowered away in fear from the dark witch, but that time was long gone. At the time, Bellatrix had come to her, she had been the one to approach her. Hermione had never asked for any of this. And this time around, Bellatrix was once again the one to have come to her, but unlike last time, she didn’t need anything from Bellatrix. She didn’t need her to cooperate, there wasn’t a war to win, there weren’t people to protect and save from dying; rather, Bellatrix _needed_ her.

She wasn’t at her mercy like that night at Malfoy Manor. She wouldn’t let her corner her and intimidate her, and get herself out of this situation. Up until last night, she had been leading a quiet and peaceful life, and she could very well act like nothing happened and go back to her life and friends. She had already learned to cope with losing Bellatrix once, she could do it a second time.

She had the upper hand for once, and she knew the raven-haired witch knew this as well because she was just wordlessly staring at her, eyes narrowed, left eye twitching, lips pursed, and fists clenched, but not doing or saying anything.

“God, you’re so frustrating,” the older witch eventually grumbled, throwing her hands up.

“So are you,” Hermione shot back and watched as Bellatrix paced the floor, mumbling under her breath as though debating with herself.

“It took months for my magic to restore itself,” the raven-haired witch said and stopped pacing, “and once it did, I left.”

“Where? To do what?”

“To explore the world.”

“What?”

“Yes. I’d always wanted to explore the world and discover other forms of magic and meet other wizarding communities, but it never happened for obvious reasons,” she rolled her eyes, “So, with the Dark Lord gone and the war over, I finally did.”

“Bullshit.”

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t give a rat’s arse whether you believe me! You wanted to know; there’s your answer!”

“Let’s say that’s what you really did. Surely, you don’t expect me to believe that’s all you’ve done for the past twelve years?” Hermione scoffed.

“Why not?” she snapped. “Why is it so hard to believe?”

“Because that’s just not what you do, Bellatrix,” she sighed, “you never leave quietly. It’s always a grand show with you.”

“Maybe I got tired of that. Maybe I wanted to get back the _fourteen_ years I lost in _Azkaban_ ,” she challenged and raised her chin haughtily.

Hermione considered her words for a second. Bellatrix had graduated from Hogwarts with ten Outstandings (she had done her research), which was more than anyone else before; even she had graduated with ‘only’ nine. She was the Brightest Witch of _her_ Age and she no doubt had a bright future – well, as bright as it could be anyway considering the history of the Black family – ahead of herself at the time, and she knew the older woman was as much as a bookworm as she was, if not more.

So, it wasn’t hard for her to imagine a young Bellatrix Black, freshly graduated from Hogwarts, wanting to expand her knowledge of the magical world beyond British borders. But that chance had been taken away from her when she was forced into an arranged marriage and when the First Wizarding War broke out only a year after she left Hogwarts.

She did some quick maths in her head; she had only been eighteen or nineteen then, and thirty (around her age now) by the time the First War ended, and she was sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban, which meant she was fourty four when she escaped. She had wasted fourteen years waiting for Voldemort’s return, and even more serving his cause when she could’ve achieved far greater things. But she had never been given the chance to. She had been surrounded by the wrong people as Professor McGonagall had once put it. 

She looked back at the dark witch, who was still staring at her as though to burn a hole through her. Yes, as much as she didn’t want to believe it, she could see Bellatrix travelling around the world, as weird as it sounded, and enjoy the freedom that came with anonymity. Still, her gut feeling told her this wasn’t the full story and she couldn’t shake it away, but she was also aware Bellatrix had reached her limit.

“You could’ve told me,” she relented after a moment in an attempt to pacify her, “I would’ve gladly come with you. God knows I needed a break after the war.”

“Ha! You were too happy gallivanting with your _precious_ boyfriend!” she raised one finger when Hermione opened her mouth to protest, “You don’t think I didn’t see the headlines, do you? _‘Budding love: Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley make relationship public’_ “she mimicked with a bitter edge in her voice, “Who’s lying now?”

She should’ve seen it coming, really. It was only a matter of time until Bellatrix brought up her relationship with Ron again and held it against her as a way to justify why she had left her in the dark for so long. She could feel a raging headache coming on from all the new information she had to digest, and she really had no energy to deal with Bellatrix’s petty resentment for her doing a perfectly acceptable and understandable thing considering the situation she had been left in after the war.

“Don’t you dare! You have no business holding my relationship against me! In fact, you have no right holding anything I did after the war against me! Everything I’ve done was to rebuild myself!” she defended herself.

“Oh, _please_ ,” the dark witch scorned, glaring at her with aversion, “he’s who helped you ‘rebuild’ yourself? Fat lot of good he did: you crumbled the second you saw me again!”

“Oh my God, I thought you were dead, of course I reacted that way! I thought I’d finally gone crazy! He’s been better company and help than you!”

“Don’t make me laugh! He has the brain cells of a troll! He’s nothing but a git! He’s only holding you back, you deserve way better!”

“I deserve better?” she questioned and narrowed her eyes, “And who would that be? You?” she sneered, gesturing to her while shaking her head, “You couldn’t even be arsed to give a sign, not even the tiniest sign, for years!”

Bellatrix froze and remained motionless and silent for a few seconds.

“I could swear you were the one who started pursuing me,” she suddenly said in a slow voice, “you sure thought I was good enough last night, or do you just let anyone have their way with you?” she spat hotly.

The words cut deeply, but she refused to let her see her bleed, so she straightened up and held her ground.

“That was then, this is now,” she replied shakily, then asserted firmly, “and last night was a _mistake_ , it will never happen again.”

“A mistake,” she repeated.

The briefest flicker of hurt swept through Bellatrix’s dark stormy eyes and threaded its way into the lines of her face before the emotion was tampered down.

“Figures.”

Then she stormed off, slipping through another door she hadn’t noticed before. She actually had the nerve to storm off on her when she had spent the entire night throwing insults at her and belittling her. Well, she had another thing coming if she thought she was just going to stand there and let her walk away.

So, she took off after her and found herself in a dimly lit, winding corridor somewhere in the manor’s labyrinth of hallways and rooms. A door to her right was left ajar and she was about to take a peek into it when she heard a door slam at the end of the corridor, followed by the clicking of heels on marble floor, and she sprung into action.

Crashing through a wooden door at the end of the corridor, she rushed across a room that looked a lot like a study but she didn’t pay attention to her surroundings as she slipped through another door, and found herself in an area which looked a lot like the entrance hall with a bunch of stairs leading up and down. She looked around herself, pondering over which way to go when she took note of a dark shape vanishing around the corner on the stairs on the left.

She cursed under her breath and hurried, taking the stairs two by two, following the ruckus that the dark witch was making as she walked briskly.

When she reached the landing, Bellatrix had a head start on her and was already halfway down the long corridor, which she recognised as the one leading to the library, and Hermione half-walked, half-ran as she tried to catch up with her.

“Bellatrix!” she called out in a bid to make her slow down.

Instantly, the curtains covering the various paintings on the wall flung open and she was once again assaulted by the shrill and grating voices of the Black family members.

“MUDBLOOD! FILTH! SCUM! HOW DARE YOU TAINT OUR NOBLE HOUSE WITH YOUR FILTHY BLOOD!” she heard them yell but she didn’t pay them any attention as she was only focused on getting to Bellatrix, who had just reached the double doors of the library.

“AND BELLATRIX!” one of the voices from the paintings bellowed, and both of them froze on the spot, “HOW DARE YOU BRING A MUDBLOOD INTO OUR HOUSE! SUCH TAINT AND FILTHY MONSTROSITY IN THIS MANOR! HAVE I AND YOUR FATHER NOT TAUGHT YOU ANYTHING!”

This had to be Druella Black, Hermione assumed. She turned her head and stared at the portrait for a moment. She now knew where Narcissa Malfoy got her platinum blonde hair, icy blue eyes, and stiff posture from; Druella Black just looked like a much older version of Narcissa with more lines on her face and light grey hair. But she didn’t get to find more similarities between them when Bellatrix suddenly appeared in front of her, partially blocking her view of the potraits, and had a staring match with the Black matriarch and other members of the Black family.

“Bella-” she started when she noticed her wand slip into her hand and a slight tremble shake her body.

“SHUT UP!” the dark witch suddenly screeched over the voices of her family, and Hermione didn’t know who it was directed at, her or her family, but it served to shut them all up. A long silence fell over them and Hermione stared wide-eyed at Bellatrix as did the people in the paintings.

“You _dare_ speak to me like this in my own house?” Druella Black hissed once she recovered from her initial shock, “You insolent brat! Apologise this instant or-“

“Or what?” Bellatrix retorted impassively. “You’ll throw me out of the house? You’ll let _Father_ Crucio me like you used to?” Hermione’s heart dropped at the casual mention of the family abuse, “Well, _Mother_ , I hate to break it to you, but you’re all dead!” she finished and chuckled humourlessly.

“Why, you-“ another voice started.

“SHUT IT! ALL OF YOU!” she bellowed and there was a loud bang as she fired a curse at the paintings and the curtains flew shut, drowning out their voices.

Silence returned to the corridor and Hermione stared at Bellatrix’s back as she breathed heavily and clenched and unclenched her fists.

“Bella-“ she started again, but was cut off once again.

“Fuck off,” was the terse reply before the raven-haired witch moved again and quickly walked to the library without looking at Hermione, opening the doors with such force that they almost flew off their hinges, and she leapt in before they closed.

“You need to learn to listen to your betters,” Bellatrix growled.

And her quick reflexes had her cast a quick Protego when she was suddenly assaulted with a red jet of light, the force of which made her stumble a few steps back until her back hit the door.

_What the-_

She didn’t have time to think, though, when Bellatrix simply continued throwing various curses and hexes her way, and she had no choice but to dodge and block them. She hadn’t duelled Bellatrix in years, not since their ‘training sessions’ when Bellatrix had helped her improve her duelling skills, and not since the Final Battle. As such, she had forgotten just how powerful and quick the dark witch was, and she had somehow gotten even better, which made it impossible for her to even get a word in to make her stop or to fire a jinx of her own and break through her defenses.

So, they just moved around the library for the next minutes, Hermione on the defensive and Bellatrix on the offensive. The sheer force of Bellatrix’s curses and the Protego shield she was holding between them was starting to wear her down and drain her energy, and she needed to put an end to this quick before some irreversible damage occurred. She had somehow angered Bellatrix to the point where she reminded her of her old self, and she would be lying if she said she wasn’t a bit terrified.

She blocked another curse, but in her haste to reinforce her Protego shield, she failed to notice the second purplish-red jet of light coming her way and was suddenly blasted backwards into one of the bookshelves with such force that she stopped breathing for a second and her wand went flying.

“Really, pet, you should’ve stayed with your little boyfriend,” Bellatrix advanced towards her with a smirk of victory and stopped a few inches from her, “Would’ve saved you from _wasting_ your precious time and from being _humiliated_ ,” she whispered, her tone still venomous enough to make her tremble, though she wasn’t sure whether it was because of fear or the closeness.

She opened her mouth, and closed it again, unsure what to say. Her heart was beating hard and high in the base of her throat when she looked down into dark eyes, and she braced herself against the edge of the bookshelf.

How come she always found herself either being pressed against a wall or a wooden surface, she wondered to herself as her eyes flickered from side to side, looking for a way out. She flinched when she saw Bellatrix raise the hand holding her wand out of the corner of her eye, and she slowly closed her eyes, expecting the worst. But she opened them again when nothing came and instead, her hand settled on her throat, squeezing slightly.

“What to do with you now, hm, dove?” Bellatrix muttered, her voice just above a whisper and warm breath ghosting over her lips, “You’re at my mercy now, no one’s going to save you.”

Hermione’s eye darted across Bellatrix’s pale face. Her implicit yet obvious threat hung in the air between them, the tension palpable, and Hermione did the only thing she could think of in that moment. She surged forward, her lips descending upon Bellatrix’s plump ones, which froze upon contact.


	7. Tear You Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst, hurt, and more angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments and kudos! 
> 
> Now, I'm just going to go and hide. I've never written something like this before. Hope you enjoy!

_Black magic, night walker_ _  
She haunts me like no other  
Nobody told me love is pain, oh  
Black magic, dark water  
Surrounds me like no other  
She's got my heart in chains_

Black Magic, Eminem & Skylar Grey

She felt Bellatrix completely freeze against her, her lips unmoving and wand clattering to the floor several feet away. Hermione understood it was wrong, her subconscious was screaming at her and calling her an idiot but it was drowned out by the nagging voice in her head telling her to carry on; she had just unleashed a need that she suddenly could no longer deny.

She tentatively traced the tip of her tongue along her plump lips, and a small, shocked gasp rose from the dark witch’s throat at the action, granting Hermione easy access into her mouth. For a few agonising seconds, Bellatrix did nothing but slightly tighten her hold on her throat, then she began to pull away, and loss swept through Hermione.

Their eyes locked, unblinking; Bellatrix’s were glazed over, unfocused as though she was catatonic, and were darting across her face with wide, horrible calm. She seemed to be somewhere else entirely and it was an odd thing to witness.

“What the hell are you playing at?”

It was muttered so quietly that it almost went unnoticed by her ears and she wondered if the raven-haired woman had even spoken at all, but the warm breath, tinged with alcohol, that ghosted across her lips was unmistakable.

“I- I’m sorry,” she found herself stammering, “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Sure you don’t.” Bellatrix narrowed her eyes and watched her closely. “ _What happened last night was a mistake_ ” she repeated and raised an eyebrow.

Hermione flushed and looked down. In hindsight, she shouldn’t have said such a thing; it had evidently bruised Bellatrix’s ego, and she’d have undoubtedly been hurt too if it was the other way around. But damn if the older witch didn’t deserve it for taunting her and riling her up so much. Would she apologise to her directly, though? No.

“I may have exaggerated slightly,” she breathed out, raising her chin up and holding her head high.

“Is that so?” Bellatrix whispered, leaning in once more.

In lieu of answering, she merely raised her hand and brushed her fingers on the hand that was still curled around her throat, feeling the soft skin of her palm and squeezing slightly.

The dark witch groaned and pulled her against her, snaking her arm around her waist; sparks of heat ignited low in Hermione’s stomach as their bodies, albeit clothed, pressed against each other. There was only a small moment of hesitation before their lips met again, noses bumping, teeth clashing almost painfully with the force of their joining, tongues mingling, each one trying to get closer to the other.

They both hummed when Hermione cradled her angular face with one hand, her thumb stroking her cheek, and snaked her other hand through her soft, dark curls and slightly pulled until her neck craned back, allowing her to deepen the kiss.

“Mine,” the older witch growled breathlessly against her lips before sliding her hands over her body, squeezing her arse before lifting her up and pressing her hard against the bookshelf, her legs instinctively wrapping around her waist.

Hermione’s heart was thundering in her chest, and her head was pounding with exhilaration as her blood rushed through her veins so rapidly that she thought she could almost hear it. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she knew that what she was doing was wrong, it was so wrong, she had battled with herself all day; but the reasons now seemed very vague and distant as she practically devoured the sweetness of Bellatrix’s mouth, tasting her deeply as she held her tightly against her.

Their kiss was fervent; it was hungry; it was heated; it was hurried like they were making up for lost time (which, technically, they were) and even the potential of future lost time. The passion was burning between them, their breathing erratic, and she felt like she was losing her mind when Bellatrix’s hands started to roam all over her body.

The dark witch bucked against her when her nails scratched at her scalp, and her hands drew small circles down her back before moving to her breasts. She cupped her hand against one breast and gently squeezed, causing her to moan with pleasure. Bellatrix growled with satisfaction and grazed the soft peak through the fabric of her blouse with her thumb before moving her attention to the other breast, claiming her once again with her mouth. Hermione felt as though her entire body was aflame, and a delicious ache was blooming between the apex of her legs.

She clawed at the older woman’s strong shoulders as she pressed herself into her as much as was humanly possible, slowly grinding against her in a circular motion. Wrenching her lips from hers, she threw her head back against the books behind her, mouth agape in a silent “o” as Bellatrix peppered her jaw with wet kisses and moved her hips against hers, the bookcase rattling dangerously as she did so.

The rattle caused a book perched on the top of the shelf to tip forward, poising precariously on the edge before it fell, slamming down onto Hermione’s head before meeting the floor with a loud thud and a cloud of dust.

“Ow, that hurt,” she groaned in pain and her grip on Bellatrix’s shoulders loosened, one hand coming up to clutch at her forehead in a futile attempt to contain the pain. It would probably leave a nasty bruise.

She felt Bellatrix chuckle against her jaw, the vibrations spreading through her body, before she pressed another kiss to it and raised her head; her eyes had darkened, pupils blown wide with lust and need.

“Hm, I like it” she hummed and brushed her cold fingers on the sore spot on her forehead, “a pity really that you healed your cheek,” she continued, fisting her hair in her hand, “it gave you… a _wild_ look,” she finished and tugged at her hair, finally drawing a breathless moan from Hermione.

Their lips met again in a ferocious embrace and she felt Bellatrix’s hand slide down her body again to settle under her thighs; her arms wrapped themselves around her neck and her legs tightened around her waist as they started moving, lips still locked together in a heated kiss and tongues twisting together.

Her back suddenly hit a table and she made a soft sound of hurt when the older witch not so gently lay her on the flat surface, pushing everything off as she hovered above her, just out of reach.

“I bet you’ve been dreaming about this for years, haven’t you, pet?” the dark witch husked, trailing one hand down her side while the other settled around her throat again, “Fucking in a library?”

Hermione sat up a little, leaning on her elbows for support. “Must you be so crude?”

A smirk formed on Bellatrix’s lips and she leaned in, “Am I wrong, dove? Are you telling me you’ve never imagined being in this same position during one of your late nights in the Hogwarts library, hm?”

Heat pooled down into her lower belly at the dark witch’s words. Admittedly, having sex in a library was one of Hermione’s biggest fantasies. There was just something exciting about the possibility of being caught, and she would be lying if she said the thought had never crossed her mind, but it had just been that: a thought. A thought she had never intended to indulge in.

“Why don’t you find out?” Hermione challenged and curled her legs upward, settling them on either side of Bellatrix’s hips and pulling her in. The dark witch gasped as she fell against her and moaned when Hermione’s mouth immediately latched onto her neck, where she sucked on her Azkaban tattoo, biting and licking.

Bellatrix cursed under her breath and grabbed her chin, curving her body over hers to seal their lips. She tore at her mouth, now frenzied, and settled her hands on her hips, grunting softly into her mouth when she started rolling her hips against hers. Hermione felt delirious as she met each roll of the older witch’s hips with her own, one hand gripping her waist to press her harder against her and the other finding its way into her luscious hair again.

Their tongues battled for a moment before Bellatrix pulled away and started trailing wet biting kisses along her jaw again, her lips leaving a blazing trail on her skin after each kiss. She thought her heart would fly right out of her chest any moment; that was how fast it was beating. The ache in her lower belly tightened as they rocked harder against each other, and she needed more. She needed all their clothes to be gone; she needed to feel her bare skin against hers.

“Bella…” she sighed and cradled her face.

The raven-haired witch froze against her and raised her head, meeting her gaze and looking at her curiously for a moment, chest heaving up and down to the rhythm of her rapid breaths. Hermione realised that she had uttered her nickname for the first time that night, and she softly smiled at her.

“What? What do you need, pet?”

“Bed…” she groaned, “Take me to bed, Bella…”

“Are you sure?”

She franctically nodded and Bellatrix’s hold on her momentarily tightened and next thing she knew, she felt satin sheets beneath her as they landed on a bed. She barely had time to look around herself, though, as Bellatrix pounced on her at once and didn’t waste any time as she trailed kisses down her jawline and to the sensitive skin of her neck while her hands untucked her blouse from the waistband of her trousers, grazing her heated skin.

“Black fits you,” she breathed out, “I’ve been wanting to tear this off you all night. It’s actually driving me _sane_ ,” she growled, her fingers moving to undo the buttons and revealing her low-cut black lace bra.

“I drive you sane?” Hermione breathlessly chuckled at the odd expression she used.

“Can’t get any more crazy than I already am, can I?” the dark witch laughed then huffed with impatience and quickly popped the last few buttons, removing the blouse from her shoulders.

Then, she went back to ravishing her neck with her hot mouth, quickly moving over her collarbones and onto the valley of her breasts. Hermione arched against her mouth and buried her hands in her hair, pressing her against her like she had done the previous night.

So lost was she in her haze of desire that she didn’t see Bellatrix wordlessly wave her hand over her body while her other hand quickly moved up her arm. And she groaned when she felt Bellatrix stiffen against her and lean back just as she was about to pull down the strap of her bra and slide it off her shoulder.

“What’s this?”

 _What’s what?_ she thought as she raised her head and looked down.

And her eyes widened in horror when they landed on the purplish marks – both Bellatrix’s and Ron’s – covering her upper chest. Alarm bells blasted in her head, and reality came crashing down on her in heavy waves just like it did the previous night. And with it came a chorus of conflicting and guilt-inducing thoughts. Her guilt upon waking up that morning had been immeasurable, and she had sworn to herself that she would never repeat the same mistake twice, but here she was again, betraying Ron _again_. And she had been the one to initiate it this time.

Yet, she felt like she had somehow betrayed Bellatrix as well and it felt so wrong. Her loyalty lay with Ron, not with Bellatrix. Ron was her boyfriend, not Bellatrix. Having intercourse with your significant other was a perfectly normal thing to do; what wasn’t normal was _cheating_. Still, it didn’t stop her heart from hammering in her chest and pounding in her ears as if she had just run a marathon. Did she really think Bellatrix wouldn’t find out one way or another?

“I said, what’s this?” Bellatrix repeated in a very slow voice that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She was staring at one of the marks on her sternum with a deep scowl on her face.

“Have you forgotten your own handiwork, Bella?” she chuckled but her voice wavered and even she didn’t believe her own lie.

She had always been such a bad liar.

“Do you take me for a fool?” her voice was low and dangerous and matched the glare in her eyes when she looked up at her. “I don’t forget. I _never_ forget.”

Hermione gulped.

“Surrendered yourself to the ginger idiot as soon as you got home, didn’t you?” the dark witch spat with so much hatred and disgust that she shivered.

“No, I-” she spluttered and averted her eyes from her.

Apparently, it was the wrong thing to do because the next thing she knew, Bellatrix had roughly grabbed her chin, her nails digging painfully into her cheeks as she was forced to stare into her dark eyes while she screeched, “Don’t lie to me!”

It was too late when she realised what was happening and the room they were in vanished; image after image raced through her mind like a flickering film, each more vivid than the last. She felt an additional presence in her mind, and she immediately tried to raise her mental shields, but she had never really mastered the art of Occlumency, and her current state of distress wasn’t helping in the slightest; the first layers of her mind were quickly broken through, giving Bellatrix access to her every thought and memory.

She screamed and trashed mentally against the intrusive presence but was unable to do anything.

Image after image of joy and violence, image after image of rejection and loss floated through her mind; the raven-haired witch was everywhere, quickly and ruthlessly prying into her memories, and Hermione knew which one she was looking for. In her moment of panic and in a bid to stall Bellatrix, she pushed childhood recollections to the forefront of her mind; receiving her Hogwarts letter; going to Diagon Alley for the first time with her parents; sitting under the Sorting Hat; fighting a troll in the Hogwarts bathroom; saving Buckbeak; running away from Lupin’s werewolf form; helping Harry with the Triwizard Tournament; conjuring her first corporeal Patronus; dancing with Harry in their tent.

She felt Bellatrix’s curiosity as each memory played out in quick succession, but her frustration was stronger in that moment and each memory was easily discarded and eventually, the images in her mind slowed…

 _No_ , she panicked. _Stop! Get out! Get out of my head!_

…and steadied to one single image.

_She was kissing Ron and leading him to their bed as they tore their clothes off each other, their underwear being the only barrier between them. She slowly pushed him on the bed and settled on his lap, scratching his scalp with her nails and rolling her hips against him when their mouths reconnected._

_She chuckled when he groaned against her mouth, and he reached up behind her to unhook her bra, easily sliding it down her arms, and snaked one hand around her waist while the other cupped her breast. She wrenched her lips from his and sighed._

_“I’ve missed you, Mione.”_

_“Oh yeah?” she husked, and her fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers._

_He squirmed beneath her as her hand began to work up and down his length, eliciting a groan from his lips._

_He suddenly switched their position and he was now on top of her, languidly kissing her. She gave out a soft sigh when his lips moved down to her neck and chest, and her hands wandered up his torso, broad shoulders and down his back._

_His lips had been about to move down over her stomach when she stopped him, and he questioningly looked up at her._

_“I need you now, Ron.”_

_“Are you sure?”_

_She nodded; he moved back up her body and kissed her before he slowly removed her knickers along with his boxers and settled between her legs, his manhood pressing against her._

_He hesitated. “Are you really sure, Mione? I can…”_

_She rolled her eyes and groaned. “Yes, Ron.”_

_He nodded after a moment and positioned himself. She whimpered and clutched at his shoulders when he finally slid into her slowly, and he stilled for a second until she relaxed before entering her all the way, groaning as he did so._

Hermione felt queasy from reliving the memory, and she could also feel anger and disgust coming in waves, but it wasn’t her own: it was Bellatrix’s. Coupled with that was another feeling that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Was it possessiveness? Jealousy? Hurt? The feeling disappeared as soon as the thought crossed her mind, and she felt the presence in her mind attempt to pull her back into that memory.

Hermione mentally screamed at the dark witch to stop and finally managed to raise her mental barriers, fighting to push her out of her head. And something odd happened just then; there was a sudden crack somewhere in the distance and she felt herself being thrown forward, out of her mind and into… well, she had no idea.

Images and colours whirled around her, confusing her and making her forget where she was. The only thing she was aware of was that they were no longer in _her_ head.

_She was on a hard floor, tear-filled screams coming out of her mouth; blood was spurting in profusion from her arm and her breath was coming out in laboured gasps. Her head was yanked upwards, forcing her into a kneeling position, her vision blurry with tears as a livid man with dark hair sneered at her about being a disappointment. Tears of anger, but most of all, tears of sadness streamed down her face as she curled in bed in a fetal position and clutched a green and silver scarf tightly in her fingers._

She didn’t know how but she had somehow ended up in Bellatrix’s mind, and everything was rushing past her so fast. She didn’t want to see her memories, not only because they were painful to experience but also because she didn’t want to do it without the dark witch’s consent. There was so much she wanted to know about the elder woman, but not like this. Not like this. She didn’t want to view her memories, but she had no idea how to get out of her head, and she was thrown into another series of fleeting images.

_Warmth and pride blossomed in her chest, bubbling up and soaring throughout her whole body as a tall and pale man with reptilian features patted her cheek. Another man, a much younger version of Rodolphus, looked daggers at her as she jerked away from his touch on their wedding night, disgust etched on her face. Pain coursed through her entire body and she bit her tongue harder until she tasted blood so as not to scream. An intense icy cold crept up her spine and penetrated her insides. A terrible, terrified scream left her mouth._

Hermione could feel bile, hot and sour, churning in her guts the more she stayed in Bellatrix’s mind, but her memories had completely engulfed her. She felt utterly helpless and tears had started flowing down her cheeks, but she didn’t feel them.

 _GET OUT!_ Bellatrix’s voice inside her mind bellowed. _GET. OUT. OF. MY. HEAD._

 _I’m trying,_ Hermione sobbed, _I don’t know… I’ve never…_

She didn’t get the chance to finish her sentence because she was thrown into yet another memory just then.

_She cried out when something sharp slashed at her, piercing through her skin, and she was blasted backwards. She was standing behind a tree, brimming with excitement; she took one step forward, and her insides went cold when the door was suddenly opened, and a man came out–_

The connection between them suddenly and finally broke, the world around her spinning again as she was pushed out of the older witch’s mind. The first thing that she was aware of when she found herself in her own mind again was that Bellatrix was no longer on top of her and holding her chin between her fingers. No, she was now slumped against the wall across the bed, having somehow been blasted backwards during their mental struggle.

Hermione forced herself into a sitting position and tried to pull herself together as her mind reeled from what she had just seen. She tried to make sense of the fleeting images; all of them hinted at different types of pain, but the memories had been so jumbled that it was next to impossible to differentiate one from the other. What struck her the most amidst all the pain was the fondness that Bellatrix seemed to have felt at some point, or still felt, towards Voldemort. It had been in stark contrast with the rest, and jealousy bubbled and boiled in her stomach at the thought despite herself. Had she been in love with him? She gritted her teeth. She was jealous of a _dead man_.

And what was that last memory? She didn’t like what that could possibly mean. She didn’t like it at all. Was the man Ron? Did Bellatrix come to see her at some point but had backtracked at the last second?

She looked towards Bellatrix again. She was furious at her for intruding on her thoughts, but she also couldn’t help but be worried. She hadn’t moved at all; her head was bent forward, her long dark curtain of hair hiding her face, and her nails were digging into her knees. She was quiet, too quiet for her liking. The only sound that could be heard in the room was her heavy breathing, and Hermione wondered for a second if she was hurt. Trying not to shake too violently, she hastily buttoned her blouse and stood on wobbly legs. She made her way over to the still unmoving woman and crouched down next to her.

She hesitantly reached out a trembling hand and her fingers had barely touched her shoulder when Bellatrix suddenly jerked away as though burned and jumped to her feet, screeching “Don’t touch me!”

Hermione slowly stood up and watched as Bellatrix jerkily walked to the window, opening the heavy-looking curtains and gripping the window ledge. She didn’t need to see the dark witch’s face to see how livid she was. “Livid” couldn’t even begin to describe it; the murderous aura emanating from her was so palpable, it was filling the air around them. The other woman was bound to explode any moment, and she could feel her fight-or-flight response begin to kick in.

______

Bellatrix was breathing heavily through clenched teeth, trying to get her anger in check but it was near impossible. She raised her head and opened her eyes, staring out of the window into the blackness of the night. She saw herself mirrored in the window, distorted by lines of liquid and refraction and suspended between two places. She was tempted to jump out of the window and disappear into the night like a ghost to be never seen again, but she wasn’t one to flee; rather, other people tended to flee _from_ her.

She saw Granger’s reflection a few feet behind hers; she was looking around herself like the little nosy parker she was, twisting her fingers and shuffling her feet nervously, no doubt trying to find something to say. _Nervous_. The little lion was nervous. Well, she should be, she thought. She had no idea just what she had gotten herself into.

She didn’t know what angered her the most: seeing the ginger git put his filthy hands on _her_ witch, seeing that she had been the one to initiate it, or having her snoop around her head. No one had been able to break into her mind before and see those memories, except for _one_ person. Anyone else who had tried, notably the Ministry officials when she was arrested at the end of the First War, had either been violently pushed out or had passed out from the intensity of it and woken up with no recollection of what happened.

She felt her rage shaking underneath her skin and her eyes narrowed as she thought back on the way the Weasel tosser had touched and kissed her and how she had let him, enjoyed his affections even. He wasn’t a threat to her in any way, but she wanted to kill him just the same. She wanted to break every bone in his body, especially the bones in his fingers so he wouldn’t be able to touch what was hers again, and then cut off his arms and legs and finally strike him in the heart. Not only because of what she had seen, but also because she wanted to do something about the avalanche of emotions that was threatening to bury her.

And Granger… Aided by the voices in her head, a plan quickly formed in her mind. She could lock her in the basement, go over to their house and swiftly kill her little _boyfriend_ , then come back and keep her here. She could make her pay; she could even give her a taste of the Cruciatus Curse again for old time’s sake. _Who’s going to know? No one knows she’s here_ , one of the voices pointed out. Pinky knew, she thought. But Pinky was also _her_ house-elf, thus she was magically bound to her and obliged to follow her orders. If she forbade her from telling anyone, then she wouldn’t.

Yes, she nodded to herself, she could do that. Her hand went to the holster around her waist, and she stiffened when her fingers met air. Fuck, she had left her wand in the library when it had fallen out of her hands. Ah, never mind, she thought, she was highly practised in wandless magic. She was brought out of her musings when she saw Granger’s reflection in the window slowly take a step back as though to escape.

Ah, that wouldn’t do.

“Do you have any idea,” she started in a very calm voice and grinned slowly when the brunette immediately froze on the spot, “how much I want to hurt your right now? I could squeeze the life out of you with my bare hands.”

Granger audibly gulped. “Y-yes… I- if you listen-”

She slowly turned to her. She had turned deathly pale from what she assumed was fright – she had seen it way too many times on her victims’ faces. She had covered herself back up, thus hiding the various marks on her body from view, but she could still see _her_ marks mixed with _his_ on her neck, and she growled.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t tear _you_ and _him_ to pieces right now.”

“I- you-” she stammered and then held her head high when Bellatrix huffed with impatience, “threaten me all you want, I probably deserve it, but he’s done nothing! He doesn’t even know-”

“He _touched_ you! He _kissed- You kissed_ him! You let him _fuck_ you!” she spat with all the hatred and distate she could muster, and she was practically brimming with it right now.

“Oh, what a shocker!” Granger exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air, seemingly having recovered her Gryffindor courage, “People in relationships have sex! Breakthrough of the century! Well done, Bella!” and she clapped her hands sardonically.

“Drop the attitude, rat!” she barked and took a few short steps towards her, “And don’t call me that! You lost that right when you spread your legs for that beast like a damn harlot!”

The younger witch jolted in surprise and faltered at the insult for a moment, but stood her ground. “Oh _please_ , he’s my boyfriend! He has every right-”

She continued to advance on her, forcing her to step back. “You’re _mine_ , not his! How dare you after last n-”

“Oh, how dare I? How _dare_ I?!” the brunette shrilled, her voice coming out shakier than she probably intended. “No, how _dare_ you?! You knew what you were going to see when you decided to _violate_ my mind like that! And I’m not yours, I-”

Another cloud of anger passed over Bellatrix, and she hissed and pounced on Granger, grabbing her throat and slamming her head against the nearby wall. She gasped and struggled against her, but she squeezed, not too hard to completely cut off her air supply but still hard enough to make it uncomfortable for her.

“I dare you to finish that sentence right now,” she threatened.

“Let go of me,” she gasped out, weakly scratching at her hand.

“Not so bold now, are we, eh?” she sneered evilly. “What were you going to say, dearie?”

“You were married and…” she panted helplessly, “and… in love with Voldemort, you’re… you’re one to talk.”

Her iron grip around the girl’s throat loosened and she took a step back, watching with wide eyes as she slid down the wall and clutched at her throat, coughing and gasping for breath. What the hell was she talking about?

“What did you just say?” she snapped.

Granger didn’t reply for a moment as she focused on catching her breath and when she did, she stood up and looked at her unblinkingly, her eyes red from the tears that had gathered in her eyes from the lack of oxygen.

“You were still married to Rodolphus when this thing between us started”, she rasped, “are you telling me you’ve never slept with him?! And you were probably in love with Voldemort too from what I saw in your mind!” she accused, taking a step forward and jabbing a finger at her chest. She harshly slapped her hand away and forcefully pushed her.

Granger’s accusations were so preposterous and far-fetched that she almost burst out laughing. If this was what the younger witch had taken from the little she had seen in her mind, then she wasn’t as perspicacious as she thought she was. She didn’t know anything, and she made sure to voice it aloud.

“Don’t presume to know me, dearie, because you don’t know a goddamn thing,” she laughed hollowly, “I only married Roddy out of duty, you brainless fool. I only did what was expected of me after my dear blood traitor sister left with her mudblood boyfriend!” she spat with frustration. “You could hardly call that a marriage. I didn’t like him; he didn’t like me. He was merely attracted to me physically, and I only gave him what he wanted a handful of times, the last time being after our escape from _Azkaban_.”

A wild shiver rippled through her body at the thought of the cold and damp prison and the chilling hooded creatures.

She watched as realisation dawned on the brunette’s face and how her brows furrowed in deep thoughts. She could practically see the cogs whirring in Granger’s head as she mulled her words over, trying to determine whether she was telling the truth.

“So… So you haven’t…” she spluttered.

“What? Have sex since my escape?” Granger nodded, her cheeks turning red. “If you didn’t notice, you idiotic girl, we were in the middle of a war and I had other shit to do than get some action down there,” she deadpanned and raised an eyebrow, “I’m many things but a _cheater_. I’ve only slept with three people.”

“I… I didn’t know,” she mumbled and looked down.

“What? Thought I was a raging nympho that fucked all the Death Eaters?” she asked harshly.

“That’s not what I said!” the other witch exclaimed, then tilted her head to the side, narrowing her eyes. “What about Voldemort then?”

She flinched at the name and clenched her fists, her eyes darting about the room as though he would suddenly show up. She might not be a Death Eater anymore, but it didn’t mean she felt comfortable saying his name.

 _She dares speak his name… the filthy mudblood dares speak his name!_ one of the voices inside her mind screeched and urged her to punish her for it. She growled and muttered ‘Shut up’ under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“What?”

“What I felt towards the Dark Lord is none of your business, whelp. He was the only one to truly understand me and appreciate me for who I really am. He’s the one who freed me from my parents’ grasp. He’s the one who gave me purpose”, she huffed and crossed her arms, turning away.

“Why betray him then if he was oh, so good for you?” she scoffed.

“None of you business. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” the young Gryffindor challenged, and she felt her hand on her elbow.

“No!” she cried and whirled around, “I don’t owe you shit! Not after what I saw anyway, so drop it!”

Then, an idea sparked in her mind. “You know,” she started and got in her face, “You were never meant to see those memories. I should punish you for this, but punishment won’t make you forget what you saw now, will it, little lion?” She paused and smirked when Granger realised what she was insinuating and started backing away hurriedly. “The Obliviate spell is a wonderful creation, wouldn’t you say, _pet_?”

“No! Don’t do this, Bellatrix!” she yelled, holding her hands up. “You know I won’t tell anyone! Who could I tell anyway?” she desperately argued, “You have to trust me!”

“ _Trust_!” she shrieked, and Granger yelped when the mirror hanging on the wall behind her exploded into tiny pieces. She also tightly held her forearm, her brows furrowed in pain and confusion.

“Bella-” she whimpered.

“Leave.”

A thick silence fell on them, the tension heavy in the air.

“What?”

“Leave. NOW!” she bellowed, flinging a hand out and motioning to the door, “Fuck off and go back to your sorry excuse of a boyfriend! I don’t want to see your pathetic little face ever again!”

“No.”

She pursed her lips. “What did you just say?”

“I said no”, she repeated, “I’m not leaving.”

“And why the hell not? I don’t want you here! Leave, or I’ll make you!”

“You don’t want me to leave, Bellatrix.” Her voice was firm and resolute.

“Is that so?” she mocked, “You don’t know shit about what I want, and right now what I want is for you to leave and leave me the fuck alone!”

“You don’t want me to leave,” she repeated and raised her chin, “I’m all you have. No one knows you’re alive. You have nowhere to go, no one to talk to besides your house-elf. If I leave, you’ll be alone. And I don’t think you enjoy loneliness, Bellatrix, do you? That’s why you came to me. You _need_ me.”

______

Hermione didn’t know what on Earth had possessed her to say such a thing. She should have shut up, just left like Bellatrix had asked – or ordered, more like. But damn, as much as she felt guilty for feeling this way, she didn’t want to leave, so she had taken a leap of faith and said the first thing that came to her mind. She wasn’t even sure the dark witch felt that way about her. She had spent twelve years, twelve fucking years without her, hadn’t she? Who was she to say she needed her? And the older witch had told her loud and clear prior to that that she didn’t know anything about her, and she was right. She didn’t.

Bellatrix was gaping at her, her face impassive and her eyes carefully subdued, but beneath that somewhat calm exterior, she could sense anger and hatred boiling, ready to explode any second, any minute, like a ticking time bomb. She would probably yell at or ridicule her and continue to disrespect, trample, and stomp on her feelings like they were nothing any second now. In the few seconds it took all of this to go through her mind, she felt a sharp pain explode like an ignited flame on the skin of her collarbone.

The dark witch had surged forward during the first few seconds she had spent internally berating herself, and had sunk her teeth into her flesh. She let out a little high-pitched scream of pain when she felt her sharp teeth break her skin, blood spilling from the wound, and roughly grabbed her cheek in her hand, nails digging into her skin and scratching until she wrenched her away from her. Hermione gaped down at her with wide, incredulous eyes. Blood trickled down her dark red plump lips and she licked it away with a lopsided grin. She tried to ignore the small spark of arousal in her stomach that burst into liquid fire at the sight.

“WHAT THE HELL? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?! WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT? WHAT’S WRONG WITH Y-”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“WH-”

She whimpered and then screamed when Bellatrix roughly fisted a hand through her hair and pulled, _hard_ , as though wanting to rip her head off. She grasped her arm and clawed at it, desperately trying to get her to let go, but it was fruitless, for her unrelenting grip only tightened, and she gasped at the pain.

And she gasped again when Bellatrix’s plump lips crashed against hers with so much intensity that she stumbled back a few steps, but her other hand rested possessively on her waist, pulling her flush against her. She nipped her bottom lip, tugging and sucking at it. She could faintly taste the blood on her lips, but it soon faded, along with the memory of the last few minutes. It took Hermione maybe two heartbeats to abandon her last bit of reason for tonight.

 _Fuck this_ , she thought. She could deal with all of her guilt and concerns bubbling in the back of her mind later on. She could worry later. So, she put one hand on her shoulder while her other hand dug into her infuriatingly soft hair, pulling with all her might, and returned her kiss fervently. The dark witch let out a deep, guttural groan that sent a shiver down her spine, and her expert tongue ran across her bottom lip before it slid into her mouth and glided against her own. Heat shot straight to her core, the sensation building in intensity, and it was almost too much for her to handle. Her nerve endings were on fire with the desire to claim, to control, to _take_ … She had never met someone that could piss her off and turn her on like that at the same time. She tugged at her hair again while their lips moved furiously against each other.

She groaned with disappointment when the older witch wrenched her lips from hers for a second.

“Harder,” she muttered, her breath flickering on her lips.

And she chuckled with delight when Hermione complied and her fingers clawed at her hair, pulling at it desperately as their mouths reconnected in a bruising, hungry, sloppy kiss that she eagerly opened up for; and Bellatrix dove in again, devouring every inch she could reach. Hermione tried to push back then, tried to fight, to take control of the situation for once as they stumbled across the room; but she found that Bellatrix wouldn’t allow it. She snarled, breaking the kiss as her grip on her intensified, and she whimpered with frustration at the loss, but it was quickly followed by a breathless moan when her hot mouth moved down to the skin of her bared neck, licking and biting a path along her rapidly beating pulse point, teeth grazing her heated skin.

Hermione was practically purring beneath the older woman’s touch, her entire being vibrating with want and need, desperate for more; and Bellatrix gave it to her. Her hips harshly jerked forward, and the friction of their bodies slotting together sent blissful sparks radiating through her lower abdomen. If she didn’t get herself under control now, she’d end up coming before they even got down to business, and that was something she just couldn’t abide.

With that thought in mind, she pulled her mouth away from her and stared into the endless pools of black that were Bellatrix’s eyes. Because yes, they were black now. Thre was no other way to describe the deep dark colour. They were dark with unabashed lust. The raven-haired witch leaned in and took her bottom lip between her teeth, tugging at it before letting it go with a loud ‘pop’. A deep growl rumbled in her chest.

“You want me, pet?” she husked, the hand on her waist sliding lower and squeezing her arse.

“God, yes, Bella,” she sighed, her body shaking and breath hitching with each word.

“What did I say about calling me that?” she murmured, letting go of her. She knew she wouldn’t move now, wouldn’t dare to do anything without her permission now. “I think,” she growled and suddenly turned her around, “you need to be taught a lesson,” and pushed her until her knees harshly hit the wooden frame of the bed, and she hissed, both at the sensation and the implication behind those words.

And she hissed again when she was carelessly pushed onto the bed, her eyes snapping closed and mouth gaping as the both of them collapsed in a flurry of tangled arms and legs onto the silk sheets again. She didn’t have the time to flip over, though, because Bellatrix tangled her hand in her hair again and pulled her face to the side.

“What do you want?” she asked throatily, her hand travelling down the front of her body and reaching under her blouse up along her heaving skin until she reached an already hard nipple under her bra. “Tell me,” she commanded, twisting the nub between her fingers, and she gave out a sharp cry, “Tell me what you want.”

She hissed when Bellatrix repeated the action, arching into the touch, her eyes snapping shut again despite her best efforts. “I… I want to…” she gasped.

She felt the dark witch grin against her. “You want these fingers,” she started and removed her hand from her breast to bring it up to her mouth, prying it open and thrusting two fingers past her lips, “to fuck you until you beg me for completion, don’t you, pet?”

Hermione twitched at the titillating idea and opened her mouth but then snapped it shut. As tempting as completely submitting herself to Bellatrix sounded, she wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of hearing her beg. Two could play that game, she thought, and a smile formed around her lips. She closed her teeth around her fingers, biting down as hard as she could, earning a breathless groan from the dark witch; and she reached behind her, pulling at the fabric of her dress to bring her impossibly closer, and bucked against her so that their thighs melded together, allowing her to feel Bellatrix’s heat against her backside.

Bellatrix moaned and removed her fingers from her mouth to grab her chin, tilting her head to an awkward angle so she could look at her. “Now, what did I say last night about answering my questions,” she tutted disapprovingly and forced her down on the bed, “Tell me. Is that what you want, little lion?”

Hermione clenched her jaw, still refusing to answer, and blindly reached behind her in an attempt to switch their position and get the upper hand; but Bellatrix quickly grabbed her arms, holding them in her rough grasp, and moved them above her head, trapping her.

“You had your chance, now you do as I say, pet,” she whispered into her ear only seconds before her blouse was ripped open with one sharp tug, the buttons flying in various directions. _How many of her shirts was she going to ruin-_ she wondered to herself, but she moaned when Bellatrix started to press aggressive open-mouthed kisses down the back of her neck and shoulder blades, sucking and licking and nipping with renewed vigour; and she took a sharp intake of breath when the dark witch roughly palmed her through her trousers, the friction painful, and she squirmed under her.

“Don’t make a sound or I’ll stop,” Bellatrix warned throatily and continued stroking her as she pulled each strap of her bra down with her teeth and then unhooked it, flinging it somewhere on the floor.

She wanted to protest, to yell at her, but she desperately needed a release, and complied. She bit down on her bottom lip, chewing harshly on the skin, when the older witch removed her hand from her wrists and moved to fondle her breasts, and she gripped the sheets in her fists when she started pinching and rolling her erect nipples back and forth between her thumb.

“Hands and knees, now.”

She shuddered and did as she was told, not wanting to test her patience. Bellatrix nudged her legs apart with her knee and slipped her thigh between them, the hand palming her moving instead to settle on her throat. Her other hand left her breasts and slid down her quivering stomach at an agonisingly slow pace, and she almost growled with frustration. She _needed_ to feel her where she _needed_ her most _now_ , goddamn it. This was torture.

Her knees almost buckled when her hand finally pulled the zipper of her trousers down and tantalisingly slipped under the waistand and brushed the lace of her panties.

“Hmm, so wet and I’ve barely touched you,” Bellatrix drawled, “Tell me: were you this wet for your little boyfriend last night?”

Oh God… she didn’t want to think about Ron right now. She opened her mouth but then immediately snapped it shut when the hand on her throat tightened, almost cutting off her air supply.

“The rules,” Bellatrix growled and raked her nails down her throat. “Did he touch you like this?”

And with that, she pulled her panties aside and Hermione’s slick wetness smeared across her nimble fingers. Her eyes slammed shut at the sensation and she threw her head back; she bit down on her tongue so hard that she could taste blood, and her jaw hurt from clenching it so hard to keep from screaming out loud for her to fuck her. Bellatrix continued to bite and suck harshly at her shoulder blades, definitely leaving marks there, as she spread her wetness along her slit; she gasped when her fingers bumped into her clit, sending a shock up her spine.

Stinging pain erupted again on her shoulder when the dark witch bit down on her skin again and she sucked in a large breath, unable to hold back the yelp of pain and pleasure that she let out when sharp teeth pierced through her skin once more. It was too much.

“Have you forgotten the rules, my little minx? Not a sound,” she admonished, soothing the bite with her tongue.

To hell with the rules, Hermione thought. Why was she even listening to Bellatrix? She could do whatever the hell she wanted. And what she wanted and needed right now was to feel her inside of her; and she wanted and needed to feel her bare skin against her. She rutted her hips against her once more before she swiftly and wordlessly waved her hand behind her, vanishing the raven-haired witch’s corset and dress and sending them flying somewhere across the room.

Bellatrix wasn’t wearing a thing under her dress. She was completely bare, and she moaned at the skin contact. Mustering enough strength, she twisted her hips and flipped on her back, kicking her shoes in the process. Bellatrix narrowed her eyes.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed and slapped her thigh.

She didn’t even flinch this time. “Shut up and fuck me,” was all she said. She was driven by raw, animalistic desire.

A tremor went through the older witch’s body, and within seconds, her trousers had hit the floor and her panties had been ripped, literally ripped off.

“Oops,” Bellatrix singsonged, not sounding sorry at all.

And her body sighed with relief when suddenly, two fingers roughly entered her without any preamble and a mouth latched itself onto the bundle of nerves between of her legs. A moan ripped from deep in her throat and her hands immediately lost themselves in her dark curls, keeping a firm grip on them. The dark witch pumped her fingers relentlessly, soon adding a third finger all the while twisting her tongue in a circular motion on her clit. Her hips rocked off the bed, her back arching as she tipped her head back into the pillow and balled the fabric around her head up into her fists.

“Oh fuck, so good,” she cried, wrapping her legs tightly around her head, shoving her mouth closer so that she could pleasure her more intensely. The dark witch groaned against her, the vibration shaking through her entire body and reverberating in her chest. Hermione didn’t know if she was choking the older witch, but right now she couldn’t find it in her to care; not when Bellatrix’s fingers were pushing her walls apart to their full extent as they plunged deep inside her. This wasn’t lovemaking, this was just pure fucking, and she wasn’t bothered by it in the slightest. She needed this; _both of them_ needed this.

The tip of Bellatrix’s tongue flicked out to play with her clit, stimulating it until it ached painfully. Every nerve ending in her body was aflame, and sharp hunger sliced through her. Her nails dug into her thigh and her fingers curled inside of her; her eyes fluttered closed as her muscles began to tighten. She was driving her so close to the edge that she felt, finally, that she’d fall. But then, she pulled back a little, and she nearly passed out from the unrealised culmination.

“Eyes on me”, she hissed, and Hermione forced her eyes open.

She was looking up at her through her lashes, eyes wide in mock innocence. It was overtly sexual. It was devastatingly hot.

“Keep your eyes on me,” she repeated, “I want you to see how I fuck you. I want you to see that _no one_ can fuck you the way I do,” she growled and slammed her fingers back in, making her cry out.

Hermione’s heels dug into her back in an attempt to bring her even closer. She was burning all over. Her breasts ached; her core ached; the sheets felt cool against her heated skin. Sucking in a sharp breath, she tensed when the raven-haired witch’s tongue pressed over her clit. She was right on the edge of exploding, her body tight.

“Do you want to come, dove? Should I let you come?” Bellatrix hummed against her, watching her closely.

“God, yes…” she sighed, “ _Bella, please!”_

“Come for me, my little lion. _Now_.”

And she did. She came. Hard. Her vision went white. She screamed her name, her body jerking against her. And Bellatrix rode her through her orgasm, pushing her higher until she literally couldn’t process the feelings that were coursing through her.

She fell back against the bed, going completely limp beneath her and breathing heavily. Leaving her sated. 

She felt Bellatrix slowly remove her fingers, licking them clean, before kissing her way up her body until she planted an open-mouthed kiss on her neck that turned into yet another bite that sent electric sparks through her veins. Hermione groaned at the sight of her juices glistening on her plump limps and pulled her into a fervent kiss, tasting herself. Her hands travelled over the older witch’s body, making sure to rake her nails down her back before they settled on the curve of the small of her back, which she knew was one of her sensitive spots. And she smirked against Bellatrix’s lips when she bucked against her when her fingertips danced across her skin, her arousal smearing across her thigh.

The raven-haired witch wrenched her lips from hers and cupped her face, supporting herself on her elbows; she looked down at her, a few stubborn curls spilling onto her face.

“You won’t let the ginger rat touch you ever again, let alone fuck you, do I make myself clear?”

Hermione rolled her eyes and huffed. “Oh, shut up already! Get over it!”

Dark eyes narrowed. “Why, you little-”

But Hermione didn’t let her go on yet another jealous tirade. She dug her fingers into the small of her back and hoisted her up a little; the dark witch, caught off guard, stiffened and then let out a guttural moan when Hermione lowered her onto her face, placing her hands on either side of her thighs.

Hermione reached out with her tongue and licked, bit, and stroked her swollen clit. She groaned at the taste of the dark witch. The wonderful flavour of her nectar. Bellatrix whimpered and moaned, trembling when her tongue licked down her slit and circled her entrance. She wiggled her hips against her mouth, one hand digging into her hair to keep her there while the other slammed against the headboard, which creaked from how hard she was gripping it and everytime she bucked against her face.

“Fuck!” she panted, “I hate you; I hate you so much,” she growled, trying to gain a semblance of control back.

“So do I,” she chuckled against her, and oh my… the aboslute wanton moan that tore past the elder woman’s lips sent another spark of desire through her. “You’re the most infuriating person I’ve ever met,” she mumbled against her, continuing her ministrations; alternately licking and sucking at her pulsing, aching flesh, and dragging her nails down her thighs in the way she now knew she loved.

“You love it,” she whimpered, her breath coming in quick, short gasps as she pressed her forehead against the wall.

Hermione knew it was only a matter of time before the dark witch tumbled over the edge of her release. Her legs contracted around her face, and she rocked her hips back and forth over her eager tongue, a series of profanities leaving her lips. Hermione removed one of her hands from her thigh and quickly slipped it between the other witch’s slick folds to explore the wetness that had gathered at her entrance.

“Oh fuck! I’m going to- I-“ she started spluttering.

She gave a sharp cry of pleasure when she plunged into her with two fingers, and that was what it took to drive her to the brink of ecstasy and throw her over the altar. Her back arched as she let out an earth-shattering scream and exploded, her body spasming with the powerful release.

“Hermione!”

Pride and self-satisfaction spread through her chest at hearing the dark witch utter her name for the first time that night, and in such a breathless and wanton way too. She kept going, her fingers thrusting into her and tongue lapping up every drop of her juices. She slowed her assault, giving a final long lick as the ripples of ecstasy began to subside.

She slid her fingers back out, and Bellatrix groaned, collapsing next to her with a satisfied sigh. Hermione turned on her side, leaning her head against her hand, and watched the way her chest rose and fell with every breath that she took, her nipples erect, and the deepening flush that she could see as easily on her cheeks as well as on the upper slopes of her breasts.

Once she had calmed down, Bellatrix turned her head to the side and grinned at Hermione.

“That was good, wasn’t it?”

Hermione chuckled breathlessly; they had just had some mind-blowing sex, and Bellatrix was still trying to assert that she was miles better than anyone she had ever been or could ever be with. There was no doubt about the fact that the dark witch knew how to pleasure a woman better than any man ever could, but she didn’t need to tell her that. Her ego was already the size of the Earth.

She settled on humming and leaned forward, tracing the scar on her chest with the tip of her tongue before taking one nipple in her mouth; she gently sucked and bit just enough to get her to moan and pull her face into her. Hermione threw her leg over her hip and settled between her legs, which eagerly parted and wrapped around her.

“Hmmm, aren’t you tired, little one?” she grunted, “Not that I’m complaining,” she hissed when her warm tongue flicked the tip and tugged with her teeth.

Instead of answering, Hermione placed her hands under her thighs, lifting them a little as she pulled her towards her and lowered her hips. They both hissed and moaned at the sensation of their warm centres rubbing against each other; Bellatrix cradled her jaw between her hands and kissed her languidly, all tongue and teeth, and sighed into her mouth with each roll of their hips.

They rocked and trembled against each other, and it wasn’t long before Hermione felt the telltale signs of another orgasm approaching, and apparently it was the case for Bellatrix too because she pulled her mouth away from her and threw her head back.

“Pet, I don’t think I can hold on much longer,” she warned and clawed at her shoulders.

Hermione buried her face in her neck. “Come for me, my Bella,” she whispered and bit down on her Azkaban tattoo.

And the older witch gasped and shuddered against her, her lips parting in a silent scream and muttering something that sounded an awful lot like “mine”; and Hermione soon followed after her and dropped her forehead against her shoulder.

After a moment of silence where they both recovered their breaths, Bellatrix snaked her hand around her waist and pulled the duvet over their cooling skin. Hermione curled up against her, her head under her chin, and tangled their legs together.

They laid in peaceful silence for quite some time, basking in each other’s embrace; Bellatrix staring up at the ceiling; Hermione breathing in her scent and pressing soft kisses to the bite wound on her ivory skin.

 _What a weird night,_ she thought to herself. She had come here to get some answers, and she did even though there was still a lot they needed to talk about but there would be time for that later; in the process, they had screamed at each other, shared scathing words, threatened each other, fought physically and magically, and yet, in the end they had still been unable to let go and simply walk away, even though it would’ve been the most reasonable thing to do.

But she wouldn’t have it any other way, she realised. She had known from the start that Bellatrix wasn’t an easy person to be with; she had walked into this knowing what to expect, and she had accepted her despite her past and flaws, and warped perception of the world. She had never felt more wide awake than she did when she was with her. She made her feel alive, and God knows she hadn’t felt this way for the past decade or so.

She sighed contentedly and threw her arm over her stomach, tracing small circles over her soft and smooth skin.

“Are you staying this time?” Bellatrix mumbled against her forehead, breaking the silence between them.

She didn’t even hesitate once before she silently nodded. She had no idea what time it was, but she assumed it was already well past midnight, and she really didn’t fancy extricating herself out the warm and safe cocoon of the bed and their embrace, getting dressed, walking along the eerie corridors of the gigantic Manor, and venturing into the cold and stormy night.

The raven-haired witch hummed. “What excuse did you make up for tonight?” she inquired.

“Catching up with my old Muggle friends,” she muttered and flushed when the older woman’s shoulder shook with silent laughter, though she kept her head turned away to hide it.

“Hermione Granger, a witch of many talents, but lying isn’t one of them.”

An indignant and timid smile stretched across her lips and she playfully swatted at Bellatrix’s still shaking shoulder. “Hey! It’s the first thing that came to mind, alright!”

She felt Bellatrix shake her head in jest, and they didn’t say anything more after that. She exhaled softly against her skin and closed her eyes, her breath evening out.

 _God, she was so tired_.

“I’m still mad at you, by the way,” Bellatrix whispered after a moment.

“Hm? Me too,” she mumbled sleepily.

“You always are.”

“So are you.”

And the sound of their breathless laughter filled the air before sleep claimed them.


	8. The Importance of Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New (familiar) characters come into play, and Hermione wants to know more about Bellatrix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos! 
> 
> Here I come with a new chapter. I tried something a little bit different from what I usually do, so I hope you will enjoy!
> 
> I should probably include a trigger warning for mentions of abuse in the second half of the second "part" of this chapter. I know it can be a lot to handle for some.

_Unburn the boat, rebuild the bridge,  
Reconsecrate the sacrilege,  
Unspill the milk, decry the tears,  
Turn back the clock, relive the years,  
Replace the smoke inside the fire,  
Unite fulfillment with desire,  
Undo the done, gainsay the said,  
Revitalise the buried dead,  
Revoke the penalty and clause,  
Reconstitute unwritten laws,  
Repair the heart, untie the tongue,  
Change faithless old to hopeful young,  
Inure the body to disease  
And help me to forget you please._

Recension Day, Duncan Forbes

She sipped her cherry syrup and looked towards the door, wondering if he would be coming in soon. The Three Broomsticks was packed as usual with a variety of magical people scattered around, but mainly with Hogwarts students enjoying their free afternoon with a glass of Butterbeer, for it was the second Hogsmeade trip of the year and the warm beverage served to provide some warmth from the blistery and cold weather.

It had been next to impossible to find an empty table, but they had eventually managed to find one next to the fire, tucked under the stairway, which partially hid them from view but not entirely so that they could still see who was coming in and out of the pub. Well, at least she could as her companion had her back turned to the entrance door and the other people.

Her companion was wearing a creamy, ivory-coloured dress made of some expensive material, cashmere, perhaps, her emerald green coat on the back of her seat, and her long platinum blonde and dark hair was up in an elegant chignon, with a few stray hairs framing her face.

She perked up when the door opened and a gust of wind whipped through the pub, blowing the candles hither and thither and announcing the arrival of newcomers. But she slumped a little upon seeing it was a group of older Hogwarts students.

“You’re not listening to me.”

Her eyes snapped back to icy blue ones, which were looking at her with mock disapproval.

“I am, I am,” she mumbled distractedly and took another sip of her drink.

“And what was I saying, then?” her companion challenged, raising one eyebrow and running her forefinger over the rim of her own glass of red currant rum.

“Something to do with Christmas,” then she crossed her arms over her chest, “You know what? It’s just insulting that you’re even questioning my ability to listen to you.”

“Yes, but it still doesn’t prove you were listening. Andy, you’re not even listening to me _again_. What’s going on here?”

She sighed exasperatedly. “Honestly, you need to stop fussing over the poor boy so much.”

“Ha, you’re one to talk! You don’t let poor Scorpius breathe whenever he’s around!” she snorted and shook her head.

“Scorpius is only four!” she defended herself, “Furthermore-” she went on.

“‘Furthermore’? What are you, a Jane Austen character, Cissy?”

Cissy.

Against all odds, Cissy had come to her two years after the end of the war. Seeing her estranged sister face to face for the first time in thirty years had felt like a punch in the gut. The last time they had seen each other before that had been shortly after her elopement with Ted when Cissy had come to her to persuade her into coming back home, but she had simply refused; after that, they had barely come across each other but when they did, they would simply walk the other way.

The days, weeks, and months following the Final Battle had quite simply been _miserable_ ; she had known that there was no way all of them would come out unscathed at the other end of the war, but she had foolishly and selfishly hoped and prayed that Ted and Dora would be spared. So when they passed two months from each other, she had suddenly and devastatingly been at a loss as to what she was supposed to do; as to how she was supposed to carry on without them. Each night, she would dream about them, and each night, she would wake up crying and wishing to God he would bring them back or have her join them.

Two years after their passing, the mourning had not run its course. The heaviness had been in her limbs as much as her mind. Things she used to enjoy had only caused a deepening of the pain because they would simply remind her of her sweet Ted and Dora. Her only consolation and her only attachment to life had been little Teddy. He was a Metamorphmagus like her Dora, and the little bundle of joy had slowly but surely given her back her will to live. She couldn’t truly say it had gotten better with time, she still missed them everyday, but it had certainly gotten easier.

So, when the youngest Black sister had turned up unannounced at her door one night two years after she had been pardoned, her first reaction had been to slam the door in her face, only to have it swing back at her. She had then cursed her and screamed at her to leave, but she had been relentless and refused to leave her alone. So, they had somehow ended up in her kitchen and had sat there for hours, around a mug of tea, having a long overdue conversation. It turned out that Cissy had felt just as lonely as she did after the war, with Lucius being in Azkaban and Draco being aloof, and… with _Bellatrix_ being dead. Andromeda avoided thinking about her late elder sister if she could because her emotions went into a tailspin everytime that she did; but she knew that her and Cissy had been extremely close and she could empathise with her to some extent, having lost her husband and daughter. However, she could never forgive her eldest sister; she had simply taken too much from her. 

It hadn’t been easy, but she had eventually forgiven Cissy after countless desperate apologies, and they had tentatively built back their sisterly relationship, though she had still found herself resenting her for the longest time for still having her family around when she had lost hers. The bitterness had been too much to bear at times; and Cissy’s passive-aggressive insulting comments about Teddy’s father at times hadn’t helped in the slightest, but she had backed down when she had threatened to stop trying to rebuild their relationship. So, the road to forgiveness had been long and painful and filled with obstacles, but they had gotten there at last.

She heard Cissy mutter “no manners” under her breath and shake her head, but she could see the hint of a smile curving the corner of her mouth as she brought her glass to her lips.

“You’re not going to ask me who Jane Austen is?” she taunted.

She didn’t immediately answer but slowly put her glass down. “No, I know who Jane Austen is, thank you very much dear sister.”

Needless to say, Andromeda was surprised, but pleasantly. “Oh?” she raised an eyebrow and waved her hand, urging her to elaborate.

Cissy licked her lips, hesitating for a moment before she held her head high. “When you left, you left most of your belongings behind, including your books. I kept some of them, hid them from Mother and Father. You did like your coming-of-age novels.”

Andromeda felt like she had just been submerged in ice-cold water. All this time she had thought that all of her stuff had been thrown away; she had left in a haste all those years ago, so naturally she had left a lot behind. This was news to her. But Cissy hadn’t mentioned Bella- so did she-

No. What was done was done. She shook her head.

“I didn’t know…”

Andromeda thought about saying more, but right at that moment the door to the Three Broomsticks opened again, and a little boy with light brown hair and a yellow and black scarf rushed in, his nose and cheeks rosy from the biting cold. He was accompanied by a long-faced tall man with dark brown hair wearing grey robes. Neville.

“Nana!” the boy exclaimed once he finally spotted them, drawing everyone’s attention to him as he practically ran towards them, elbowing a few people on his way. Andromeda shook her head and tenderly smiled at the boy’s clumsiness; he was just like Dora.

“Teddy!” she guffawed as he threw his arms around her and shook his head, so that the snowflakes that hadn’t melted in his hair yet came falling down onto her. “What have I told you about doing that, hm?” she lightheartedly admonished.

“But it’s fun, nana!” he smiled innocently.

Then, he turned to Cissy and his hair turned blond. “Hello, Aunty Cissa,” he shyly greeted and pecked her on the cheek.

Cissy offered him a small smile and ruffled his hair, casting a wordless Warming Charm on him so he wouldn’t catch a cold from how hard he was shivering, and proceeded to ask him about his time at Hogwarts. While they chatted and Cissy ordered a Butterbeer for him, Andromeda turned to Neville who was awkwardly standing by their table, looking around.

“Thank you, Neville,” she warmly smiled at him.

Neville turned to her and returned her smile, slightly bowing his head as he did so. “Don’t mention it, Mrs Tonks. It’s always a pleasure.”

“Now, Neville, how many times have I told you to call me Andromeda? We’re not strangers,” she teased.

“I know. Sorry, Mrs T… Andromeda,” he mumbled, and he turned his gaze away from her, his face turning red.

Andromeda chuckled and shook her head. She had known Neville’s parents, Alice and Frank; they had been in their First Year in Hogwarts when she had been in her Seventh, so their paths had crossed, but she mostly knew them from the Order of the Phoenix. And sadly, everyone was well aware of the terrible fate that struck them all those years ago; and bearing an unfortunate striking resemblance to Bell- her _elder sister_ , she had often been mistaken for her, and still was sometimes. So naturally, Neville had been one of those people, and it had taken him a lot of time to be able to directly look at her and not physically recoil. She couldn’t blame him: what her sister did to his parents was beyond cruel and inhumane. It was vile. Pure evil.

But they had eventually struck up a tentative friendship last year when Teddy started attending Hogwarts. Letting him go hadn’t been easy at all as he was all she had and she was all he had as immediate family, and he had filled the void in her heart and life left after losing both Ted and Dora, so having him gone for most of the year had filled her with dread at the prospect of being on her own. She had been worried sick during the first few weeks, so she had arranged with McGonagall to see him at least once every month or two in Hogsmeade. McGonagall had been reluctant at first, arguing that as Headmistress it wouldn’t be ethical for her to favour any of her students; but the former Transfiguration Professor had eventually relented when Andromeda reminded her that Dumbledore and even her had granted Harry a lot of privileges, one of them being allowing him to join the Quidditch Team in his First Year.

So, Neville, who took up a teaching position in the Herbology department under Sprout’s tutelage, had been the one to accompany Teddy on his trips to Hogsmeade; the two had quickly developed a healthy teacher-student relationship when Teddy had shown proficiency in Herbology. She was at least glad that her little Teddy had McGonagall and Neville to watch out for him and to go to should he need comfort; growing up, he had been plagued with frequent nightmares, and that had been one of the many reasons she had been worried when sending him off to Hogwarts. It only made her hate _Bellatrix_ more for taking Dora from her, but most importantly from him; he didn’t even remember his parents. It would’ve stung less had it been someone else.

“I will be going now if that’s alright with you,” Neville said, “Will you need me to take him back?”

“Oh no, that’s alright, Neville, I will,” she smiled.

“Okay, well… Have a nice day, Mrs T- Uhhh… Andromeda!”

“See you, Neville,” she laughed.

He then turned to Teddy, who turned to face him as well when Cissy slightly nudged him. “I’ll see you in class, Teddy.” And he gave Cissy a slight nod, which she returned.

“See you, Neville! I mean… Professor!” he quickly added when she looked at him pointedly.

They all laughed at Teddy’s awkwardness, and she watched Neville quickly leave and go out into the cold again, then turned back to Cissy and Teddy, who was half-standing, half-sitting on Cissy’s lap, holding a glass of Butterbeer in his hands.

“Nana, can we go to Honeydukes?” he eagerly asked after taking mouthfuls of the warm beverage, licking the foam off his upper lip and then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand for good measure.

“Don’t do that, it’s unbecoming,” Cissy softly tutted and took out a green embroidered handkerchief from the pocket of her coat, “Here,” she said and wiped his face.

Teddy grumbled and struggled against her. “Hmph! I’m not a kid, Aunty Cissa!”

“What are you then, hm? A man?” she teased him, cleaning the handkerchief with a wave of her hand and folding it back.

“Yes!” he exclaimed and puffed his chest.

Andromeda had to hold back a snicker, and she could tell that Cissy was trying hard not to laugh too from the way she clutched the handkerchief as well as the contorted expression on her face. She watched with a fond smile for a bit as they bickered back and forth. She had been worried the first time that Cissy had met Teddy; she had been worried the warped ideologies they had been fed as kids by their parents would still prevail considering how Metamorphmagi were wrongly considered half-breeds and they had been taught from a young age to despise anything that defied the so-called “norms”. But she needn’t have worried at all in the end because Cissy had completely disregarded it – whether it was because she simply didn’t care or didn’t want to further damage their relationship, she didn’t know, but she was grateful for it. Cissy had always been great with kids, even though she could be quite overbearing at times and tended to spoil him as well.

“Nana, can we gooo?” Teddy whined after a minute.

“Finish your drink, sweetie, and we will,” she promised, “Now, tell me, how’s school going?” she inquired as he proceeded to drink the remainder of his Butterbeer, trying to gulp it all down in one go. “Slow down, young man!”

“It’s going well, nana,” he grumbled; he didn’t like talking about school because he didn’t like doing all the assignments that they were given even though he always got good grades, “Chris got himself detention because he tried to sneak out into the Forbidden Forest,” he giggled, “and Hufflepuff is playing against Slytherin next week!” then he proceeded to ramble on Quidditch.

Ah, Quidditch. Just like his godfather, Teddy was a big fan of Quidditch and had posters and banners of his favourite teams on the walls of his room, and Harry had even taught him to fly on his ninth birthday. And ever since Harry had mentioned that he had played as a Seeker for the Gryffindor team, he had hot gotten it into his head that he would make it to the Hufflepuff team and be just as good, if not better.

“So no nightmares, Teddy?” she eventually asked softly when he paused in his rambling to take a breath.

“No, Nana!” he brightly smiled, “Neville-”

“Professor Neville, darling,” Cissy corrected.

“ _Professor_ Neville,” he rolled his eyes and carried on, “gave me a book titled _Magical Mediterranean Water-Plants and Their Properties_ and I’ve been reading that! You should read it too, Nana, Aunty Cissa when I’m done!”

They both chuckled at his enthusiasm. Teddy had possibly _devoured_ a third of the books on Herbology in the Hogwarts Library since his First Year; he was a bookworm through and through, a common trait he shared with Hermione, who always gifted him new books whenever she came around.

“I’m happy to hear that, poppet,” she cooed. “Now, are you ready to go?”

“Yes!” he squeaked and jumped to his feet, “Aunty Cissa said she’d buy me loads of sweet! Right, Aunty Cissa?”

Andromeda turned to look at her with raised eyebrows. “Let the boy have some fun, Andy,” she rolled her eyes and rose from her seat, reaching into her bag to pay for their drinks.

“Oh, I don’t think so!” Andy interjected and reached into her own.

A few minutes later, they came out of the Three Broomsticks after having bickered over who would pay – Andy did in the end, and they were now bickering over Cissy wanting to pay for their purchases in Honeydukes. Teddy was skipping ahead of them towards the renowned sweet shop without a care in the world while they walked slowly.

“You spoil him too much, Cissy,” she sighed and shook her head, “You don’t have to buy him anything, you know.”

“Nonsense,” Cissy retorted and raised her chin. “This is what kids his age like. Besides, I only have one great-nephew.”

She huffed, and buried her face in her scarf; she could still feel the brisk and harsh weather despite the Warming Charm she had cast on herself. The streets of Hogsmeade weren’t as crowded as usual, most people preferring to take refuge in the Three Broomsticks or the Hog’s Head, and she couldn’t blame them.

“Nana, Aunty Cissy, hurry up!” Teddy screamed over the blustery wind, having reached Honeydukes.

“This boy is going to be the death of me,” she muttered under her breath, and she heard Cissy snigger next to her as they picked up their pace.

They went into the much warmer interior of the shop. Honeydukes was as packed as ever as students stocked up on their stash of sweets until the next Hogsmeade weekend. Teddy rushed to one of the shelves in the corner of the shop, and Andromeda and Cissy had to squeeze and fight their way between the crowd of students and the packed aisles; and by the time they reached Teddy, he was already holding countless packs of sweets – Acid Pops, Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, Cockroach Clusters, Pepper Imps, Sugar Quills, Fizzing Whizzbees – and chocolate.

“Teddy,” she hissed in a half-hearted warning, “How many times did I tell you not to get those blood-flavoured lollipops?”

“But they’re not really blood-flavoured, nana!”

Andromeda rubbed at her temples, and quickly rushed him to the checkout to pay quickly – well, Cissy insisted she did – before he got the chance to get his hands on any more sweets, and not wanting to stay in the jam-packed shop any longer.

They left the shop and began the trek back to Hogwarts, with Teddy holding one bag full of sweets and chocolate in one hand and a lollipop stick in the other, humming contentedly as he licked it, his mouth immediately turning bloody red.

“Do you have any other plans for today?” Cissy asked after a few minutes of peaceful silence.

“Hermione is coming over in,” she checked her watch, “under an hour. I might get her to stay for tea and invite the others as well.”

“Ah, Miss Granger,” Cissy nodded and didn’t say anything more.

“She’s a great person, Cissy,” she said, “always fighting for what’s right. And she’s great company too. Didn’t she help Draco?”

Cissy pursed her lips. “Yes, yes, she did. Her and Mister Potter fought for his pardon tooth and nail and helped him with his career in the Ministry.”

“See,” she smiled, “Honestly, you should try and get to know her more. You’d find you’d get along, and even become friends like her and Draco did.”

Her sister merely hummed, and she dropped the topic, knowing they wouldn’t get anywhere. They reached the gates to Hogwarts and stopped. She once again marveled at its glory, the castle still as beautiful and magical as the first time she had laid eyes on it.

She turned to Teddy, who was looking at them both, still sucking on his lollipop.

“I’ll see you in a month, Teddy,” she softly said as she hugged and kissed him. “I’ll Owl you next week, don’t misbehave.”

“Yes, nana,” he groaned, briefly tightening his arms around her before letting go and hugging Cissy.

“Bye, Aunty Cissa! Thanks for the sweets!” he grinned.

_______

Hermione looked down into her mug of tea, watching the steam rising from it and disappearing into the air. She could see her reflection, albeit slightly marred, staring back up at her. She sloshed the liquid around in a circle, deep in thought.

Andromeda had gone to the kitchen to check on the stew she was making; she had managed to convince her to stay for tea, and naturally, she had also invited Ron, Harry and Ginny, and their kids. They would be arriving soon.

After the war and the repairs at Hogwarts, her and Andromeda had become friends. As Nymphadora and Remus had wanted Harry to be Teddy’s godfather, he had spent a lot of time at Andromeda’s place; and needing a reprieve from everything, so had she. Taking care and babysitting Teddy on the days Andromeda was at St Mungo’s had provided her with a much-needed distraction.

Andromeda couldn’t be any more different than both of her sisters. She was very caring and warm unlike Narcissa Malfoy who had always been cold and stiff on the few occasions they had met, and she wasn’t reckless or temperamental like Bellatrix. The only similarities she shared with them was the haughty expression she could sometimes display when she was being challenged, and the uncanny resemblance between her and Bellatrix. The two could easily be mistaken for twins, and she remembered Harry telling her about how he had reflexively drawn his wand at her the first time he had seen her. Hermione, too, had been utterly taken aback by the physical resemblance, it had hit her like a bullet in the back, but for entirely different reasons. She remembered almost bursting into tears the second she had set eyes on her, and everyone, Andromeda included, had mistaken her distress for some sort of post-traumatic manifestation of her repressed memories of the skirmish at Malfoy Manor.

So, with her denial and dashed hopes that Bellatrix wasn’t truly dead, seeing Andromeda had felt like salt in the still very fresh wound; and she had felt anger too at some point at the reality that anyone could even remotely look like her Bellatrix. But she had quickly realised she was being unreasonable and irrational, and the resemblance was only surface level; Andromeda had brown hair as opposed to Bellatrix’s black, her eyes were larger and kinder, and she didn’t have the fiery passion that she knew Bellatrix possessed. The moment she had come to terms with that had been the moment her and Andromeda’s friendship had truly developed and blossomed. And she was grateful for it: she had been of much mental support, especially when she had come back from Australia, completely and utterly defeated.

Her thoughts veered off again to Bellatrix as they always did these days. A month had passed since that night at Black Manor, and they hadn’t seen each other since, not that Hermione hadn’t tried. She had thought that Bellatrix would make more attempts to see her after that night, but she had surprisingly gone AWOL on her; the only contact that they had was through the DA coins, but even that wasn’t enough. They couldn’t properly talk through the golden coins; you couldn’t send lengthy messages and Bellatrix was always so aloof that it was even harder for her to work out what mood she was in. Against her better judgment, she wanted to see her again, but all Bellatrix had told her was that she couldn’t because she was busy. _Busy_. Busy with what? Now, she didn’t know if she was telling the truth or if she was just taking the piss as she always did, but she _wanted_ to see her. A small smile formed on her lips as she remembered waking up next to her. It had been pure bliss.

_When she woke up, the first thing she became aware of was the soreness. She moved slightly to see just how sore she was, and she released a sigh from grimacing lips. Despite the ache between her legs, she wouldn’t have traded it for anything in the world, even if last night had been a little… rough. For once, she was grateful she didn’t have to go to the Ministry today. The second thing she became aware of was the warm body she was curled around._

_She slowly opened her eyes and was greeted by blackness. Those infuriatingly soft dark curls. Sometime during the night, they had shifted their positions in the bed; Bellatrix had turned on her side, her back to her, and Hermione’s arm was wrapped around her torso while her other arm pillowed her head as she slept. Hermione was basically spooning her, her face buried in her neck. She smiled against her and took a deep breath, taking in the sweet scent of her hair. It smelled of raspberry and mixed with her cinnamon smell; it was heaven; it was magic; it was home. She raised her head and slowly removed her arm from under the dark witch’s head, taking great care to not disturb her slumber. She propped her head on her hand and watched her sleep for a few moments._

_With her raven hair frothing like sea foam over her pillow and pale shoulders, the dark witch looked like a dream herself; she was the face of eternal and ethereal beauty. She looked peaceful, more peaceful than she had ever seen her, her unconscious state erasing the angry lines she thought were permanently etched on her face. She looked almost content, and Hermione thought that she’d love to see her like this more often; seeing her with her sky-high walls down._

_She looked like a dark fallen angel that graced them with her presence on Earth, like she wasn’t capable of murder and torture. She reached over and tucked the curl that always fell down her forehead behind her ear, her fingers slightly grazing her soft skin as she did so. She traced the outline of her face as if reassuring herself that she was real, starting from her temple down to her jaw, to the curve of her neck and shoulder, which she softly kissed. Bellatrix grumbled but didn’t give any other sign that she might be awake, and she marveled at the fact that she had barely stirred in her sleep. She would’ve expected her to wake up immediately, knowing how alert she was at all times._

_Hermione felt as peaceful as Bellatrix looked; she couldn’t remember the last time she had slept this soundly or woke up feeling this content. She had slept through the night without waking up once from nightmares which usually starred the raven-haired witch who was currently fast asleep. Her smile widened and she kissed her shoulder once more before her hand moved down the smooth skin of her back, bumping over a jagged line on her lower back (must be a battle wound, she mused) before resting upon her hip._

_The older witch wasn’t showing any sign of waking up anytime soon, and she would’ve loved to stay longer and lie around in bed all morning with her, but she had already stayed long enough, and it hadn’t originally been part of her plans when she came here last night._

_“Bella,” she softly whispered into her ear, but she didn’t move at all._

_Was she a heavy sleeper? She shook her shoulder and whispered her name once more. This time, she moved her head slightly but still didn’t wake up. She splayed her hand under her breasts, her thumb storking the valley of her breasts, and inched forward to press her lips on her cheek. She finally felt Bellatrix stir, and her heart fluttered when the dark witch turned, draping her arm over her waist and nuzzling into her shoulder. Hermione sighed and slipped her hand into her hair, scratching her scalp with her fingernails. Bellatrix hummed and she felt her eyes flutter open against the bare skin of her shoulder._

_“Go back to sleep,” she mumbled, her voice raspy and sleep riddled._

_She shivered at the incredibly endearing sound of her roughened voice. “I have to go,” she muttered regretfully._

_The arm around her waist momentarily tightened before letting her go with a huff. The raven-haired witch flipped onto her stomach, turning her face away from her and burying her head in her pillow. She didn’t say another word._

_Hermione took a deep breath and leaned forward once more, pushing her hair to the side to expose her neck and face. “Walk me?” she offered, peppering her jaw and neck with light-feathered kisses._

_Bellatrix grumbled and pulled away a little. “Too early. Call Pinky.”_

_Hermione rolled her eyes and grudgingly got up, hissing slightly both at the feeling of the cold floor and the ache between her legs. She had a hunch she’d be walking funny for the next few days. She looked around the spacious room, locating where each piece of her clothing was, and hurried as best as she could to get dressed, wincing with every movement._

_When she was fully dressed and turned around, Bellatrix had pulled the covers over her head, her dark mane the only thing picking out from under the covers. She walked closer to the bed and crouched at the edge, placing a hand on where she guessed her shoulder was._

_“You’re really not going to walk me?” she pouted._

_No reply came._

_“Bella, I know you’re not sleeping,” she huffed and pulled the covers._

_The older witch hissed and turned her head towards her, her dark eyes fluttering open once more to glare at her._

_“I told you it’s too early. Either get back in bed or leave.”_

_“You’re impossible,” she shook her head and leaned forward to briefly kiss her on the lips. Bellatrix reached out to pull her closer as she lazily returned her kiss for a moment before letting her go._

Hermione shook her head. She had gotten home around seven in the morning that day and had found Ron asleep on the couch with the TV still on. She had felt extremely guilty once again that he had tried waiting up for her while she was miles away from London, spending her night with someone other than him, but at least Harry had listened to her and invited him around. And she was grateful Ron hadn’t asked too many questions and accepted her lousy apology and explanation that she had crashed at one of her old friends’ house and had been too inebriated to warn him. Of course, she knew that Ron knew she didn’t usually get plastered, but he hadn’t said anything.

And he still hadn’t said anything or confronted her about the fact that she hadn’t been intimate with him, not even once, in the last month. Not that he hadn’t tried, but she had used every excuse under the sun to avoid it: having work in the morning, being tired, having a headache, being on her period when she wasn’t… He had accepted her pretexts so far even though she knew it was aggravating him, and she was starting to run out of plausible excuses, but she simply couldn’t bring herself to be intimate with him on that level again even though they had done it countless times in the twelve years they had been together. He didn’t deserve this, he truly didn’t, he was a great guy, but she couldn’t get the look on Bellatrix’s face – that look of sheer anger and also betrayal? – out of her head.

It was messed up, and it was only a matter of time before the finals straws would break the camel’s back. And she was already dreading it.

She huffed and looked around herself. She could hear the sound of pots and pans being shuffled in the kitchen, and looked behind her trying to see what Andromeda was doing.

“I’ll be with you in a minute, Hermione!” she heard the older woman yell.

“That’s fine, Dromeda! Want any help?” she asked, getting up.

“No, dear, it’s almost ready! Don’t worry!”

She didn’t say anything more. Her eyes landed on the silver picture frame on the mantlepiece again, and a small smile graced her lips as she took it in her hands. Three young girls were standing side by side; the one on the left had platinum blonde hair and looked as prim as ever, except for the green and silver face paint on both of her cheeks; the one on the right, with light brown hair, was also wearing a green and silver scarf and was holding a bottle of Butterbeer in one hand while her other hand rested on the shoulder of the girl next to her; in the center of the picture stood a girl with curly dark hair, which was pulled into a high ponytail, and wearing a green uniform, holding a broom in one hand. The two girls on the moving picture were laughing at something while the one in the middle scowled, but a small smile curved her plump lips upwards from time to time. The three sisters looked happy.

“Hermione?”

She turned her head and saw that Andromeda had finally come out of the kitchen and was standing a few feet from her with a curious look on her face. She looked down at the silver frame in her hands and then back at her. Hermione flushed and sheepishly put it back on the mantlepiece.

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

The chestnut-haired witch took a few steps and held the frame in her hand, staring at the picture for a moment with an unreadable expression in her normally twinkling brown eyes. Hermione had been surprised the first time she had seen the picture frame on the mantlepiece. She had thought she would hate her sisters after being disowned by them for marrying a Muggleborn, but if she had learned anything in the years following the war, it was that things were never as they appeared. The relationship between the Black sisters was… complicated, to put things mildly. Bellatrix had never openly talked about it to her, neither had Andromeda, and she had never dared broach the subject before.

“They had just won the Quidditch Cup that day,” Andromeda eventually said and set the picture frame down.

“You looked happy,” she said in a small voice.

“Yes… I guess we were,” the other woman absently said, casting another look at the picture before moving to sit down on the couch, “It was all she talked about for weeks to taunt our parents.”

Hermione assumed that ‘she’ referred to Bellatrix. She smiled inwardly; it wasn’t hard to imagine a young Bellatrix Black being infuriating about winning. It was a trait that hadn’t changed at all over the years. If anything, her ego had only grown more. She didn’t have to ask why she taunted her parents. She knew the Black family’s history enough now to know that Cygnus and Druella Black probably didn’t approve of Bellatrix joining the Quidditch team. They probably looked down on the sport and thought it was unladylike, because the only thing a pureblood girl should aspire for was marriage; and Bellatrix, ever the rebel, would have naturally joined the team in order to spite them.

Hermione walked over to her and took a seat next to her on the couch, taking a sip from her cooling tea.

“Andromeda, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, sweetie.”

“What was Bellatrix like?” she asked with trepidation.

Andromeda stilled and a somber look passed over her features. Her brows drew tight and her lips curved downward, and she toyed with the ring on her finger. “Why do you ask?”

“I… Um…” she hesitated and closed her mouth.

“Is it because of your nightmares? Hermione,” she gently said and took her hand in hers, “she can’t hurt you anymore. Nor anyone else, for that matter. Rest assured.”

“I mean… maybe, but…” she paused for a moment. “It’s just… was she always like this? I mean-”

“Cruel? Heartless? Blood-thirsty? Fanatical?” the middle Black sister completed.

She gulped and nodded. “Yes… but surely, she wasn’t like this when she was younger? Or at least, not to that extent?”

Andromeda didn’t say anything as she thought for a moment, and Hermione let her. Truth be told, she knew that Bellatrix hadn’t always been like this, but she was merely trying to see how Andromeda felt about her after so many years. She hadn’t forgotten the many emotions that had played out on Bellatrix’s face at the mention of Narcissa and Andromeda reconciling, and if there was anything that she could do to reconnect her with her family, then she would. And she would also be lying if she said she didn’t want to know more about Bellatrix’s past; and if Bellatrix wouldn’t tell her herself, then she would find other means to.

“This isn’t an easy thing to talk about for me, Hermione,” Andromeda sighed, “but-”

“Don’t force yourself if you don’t want to,” she reassured, “I understand.”

“-but if this will help you with closure, then I’m willing to talk about it,” she finished.

Hermione nodded, inwardly sighing with relief.

“You must already know this from Sirius,” she started, “but what you have to understand, Hermione, is that growing up in the Black family wasn’t easy. At all. You should know that it’s tradition in the Black family, or even just in any pureblood family really to raise your offspring with a hard hand, but it was a little bit harsher in our family. My mother, Druella, she was a very cold woman. She was raised to be a broodmare, as all pureblood women are... or were. She didn’t have any choice in marrying my Father, Cygnus Black, but she always ignored what was going on and always remained very passive. But it’s my Father that you really need to know about. He was the perfect pureblood son. He was the son that every pureblood wizard would want. He strictly followed the Black family tradition, he was raised that way, and he made sure that we were too. Or should I say, Bellatrix was the one to suffer from it the most.”

Hermione held her breath and gripped her mug, knowing she wasn’t going to like what she was about to hear.

“You already know that having a male offspring as your first child is preferred among pureblood circles,” she looked at Hermione, who nodded, “well, you can imagine my Father’s ire when all my Mother could give him was three daughters. Could you imagine the shame? Having three daughters instead of a son? What an abomination!” she spat, and Hermione flinched at the tone she used, reminded of Bellatrix for a moment. “He always despised us, he made sure to tell us and show us whenever he could, but Bellatrix took the worst of it as the eldest.” She stopped and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, and carried on. “She must’ve been seven or eight when it happened. At the time I didn’t know what brought it on, but one day he came back from a work trip, and he just yelled at her and dragged her into the drawing room.”

“What? What happened?” she blurted out, more loudly than she intended.

Andromeda frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Hermione… What I remember is that me and Cissy went downstairs but our Mother ordered us to go back into our rooms. The only thing that could be heard throughout Black Manor was her helpless screams until her voice grew hoarse… It could’ve gone on for hours, I don’t really know… but I’ve never felt as terrified as I did in that moment.”

Her breath hitched audibly in her throat, and she felt tears well up in her eyes. Was this what she had unintentionally seen in Bellatrix’s mind? She remembered a man with dark hair gripping her hair and forcing her onto her knees. Had she stumbled upon this specific moment that Andromeda was talking about? She felt sick.

“I… I don’t know what to say…” she choked out, “that’s horrible, Andy, I’m sorry…”

“That’s not even the worst of it, trust me,” she waved her hand dismissively, and Hermione’s stomach dropped. What could be worse than torturing your own child? “I told you at the time I was too young to understand why he was so angry, but looking back on it, I know. It was around the time Sirius was born… There had always been some competition between my Father and Walburga, Sirius’s mother… Sirius was her and Orion’s first child, and he was a _boy_ , so you can imagine how my Father felt only having three daughters while his sister had a son.” She paused for a moment to gather herself and ran a hand through her hair.

Her shoulders were slightly shaking, and Hermione reached out to rub circles on her back. She felt for her. She shouldn’t have brought it up; it was obviously a very painful subject, and she was only rubbing salt into the wound.

“I’m sorry, Dromeda,” she started, “I shouldn’t have- We can-”

“No,” she firmly said, “I’m okay. I think- I think I need to talk about this.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” Then she held her chin up, and the similarity with Bellatrix struck her in that moment. A shudder went through her body, and she removed her hand from her back.

“Bellatrix was never the same after this. She was already very opinionated as a child and they already butted heads over their different beliefs, but after that day, Bellatrix got it into her head that anything a pureblood boy could do, she would do as well, and she would do it ten times better. Their arguments just became very heated over the years, and the more heated it got and the more riled up my Father got, the worse the punishment and torture was. But she knew exactly what she was doing, even at such a young age. She knew that by engaging with our Father like this, he would only focus on her and she would successfully keep his attention and anger away from us, Cissy and I.”

A few tears slowly seeped out from the corners of Hermione’s eyes and strolled down her cheeks in rivulets. She could not do anything else but weep as her suspicions that Bellatrix, her sweet Bellatrix, had been tortured as a child were confirmed. She had sacrificed herself for her sisters. She could’ve saved herself and not be the only one to suffer at the hand of their ruthless and merciless father, but no; she had thrown her own interests and survival to the back. She sniffled and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

“And you cannot imagine our Father’s ire when Bellatrix managed to learn Occlumency when she was fifteen and blocked his attempts at breaking into her mind everytime that they had a row. It drove him mad with rage and he only tortured her more with the Cruciatus Curse, but she never relented. She had screamed until she could no longer the first few times he had given her a taste of the delirious pain that came with the Curse, but after that? Not a single peep. She didn’t scream. She didn’t beg. She barely flinched.”

Andromeda conjured a box of tissues and silently handed one to Hermione, also taking one for herself. She dabbed at the tears at the corners of her eyes and wordlessly stared ahead of herself, deep in thought. She could see ghosts of the past flickering through her eyes.

No wonder Bellatrix was a bit unhinged, Hermione thought to herself. It was even a wonder in itself that she hadn’t completely lost her mind like the Longbottoms from being exposed to the Cruciatus Curse so much, especially from such a young age. It was also no wonder the Cruciatus Curse ended up becoming her signature spell.

She remembered Harry telling her after the Battle of the Department of Mysteries that Bellatrix had shrieked at him that he _needed_ to _mean_ it when he had tried to use the Cruciatus Curse on her, and she had also told her the same thing. Hermione had never once used any of the Unforgivable Curses, but she knew that they not only required a great deal of willpower and skill, but also a genuine desire to cause harm. For them to work effectively, one had to reach the deepest level of hate within themselves and hold on to it during the casting of the curse. The stronger the hate was, the more powerful the curse was and the more damage it caused. And Bellatrix’s hatred of her father would’ve definitely been enough for her to effectively cast the Curse everytime, not to mention the fact that she seemed to be living in a semi-perpetual state of anger.

When Andromeda spoke next, her voice was a bit shaky. “I’m not proud to say this, and I do regret it and I know Cissy does too, but we eagerly took advantage of Bellatrix’s willingness to throw herself between us and our Father and take the blows for us. We used her as a human shield, and I regretted that for a long time after I finally ran away from home the moment Ted offered we live together. Make no mistake, I don’t regret marrying Ted because he gave me everything and taught me the real meaning of what a family is, but I know that she must’ve paid the price as the eldest.”

“Do you… Do you know what happened after you left?” she tentatively asked, dreading the answer that she would get. She had an inkling.

“No…” she muttered and looked down at her hands. “Me and Cissy have never talked about it. We try to avoid it as much as we can, but I can only imagine what must’ve gone on the second our parents found out.”

Hermione sighed and slowly nodded.

“What was she like in Hogwarts?” she asked, trying to divert the conversation to a maybe ‘lighter’ one.

“She was a brilliant student, always ahead of everyone else, but she was also a troublemaker. She got detention within the few weeks of her First Year for sneaking into the Restricted Section after curfew,” Andromeda gave a watery smile. “She wrote to us every week,” and her smile slowly dropped, “but I could tell she didn’t have many friends, if any… Growing up, we didn’t really have friends… we only had each other, so she always had a hard time trusting other people and connecting to them on a personal level.” Yes, Hermione was well aware she didn’t easily trust others. “And being a Slytherin also didn’t help.”

She raised one eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Slyterins are very self-serving and cunning. It’s the typical story, really: they only want to use you for their own gain and then stab you in the back when they get the chance to. Being surrounded by people like that for most of the year isn’t easy, and in the end you don’t know who to trust. You never know who truly wants to be your friend and who’s merely using you to make themselves look better and rise even more on the social ladder. As a result, you’re always guarded and closed off to the outside world.”

Hermione nodded. It made a lot of sense; she remembered how Crabbe and Goyle always followed Draco around like puppies when they were students. They had never seemed to be close friends like her, Harry, and Ron were.

“But of course,” Andromeda continued, “she gained in popularity when she joined the Quidditch team and she was also part of a gang of other popular Slytherin students made up of the Lestrange brothers, Malfoy, Dolohov, and Rowle, but you couldn’t really call them friends. They only hung out because our parents had arranged for Bellatrix and Rodolphus to marry after school.” Hermione gritted her teeth at the mention of his name, but Andromeda carried on, “Cissy and I were still the only people she trusted, and just as she shielded us from our Father at home, she also took it upon herself to shield us from other students. And no one really dared bother us anyway,” she laughed humourlessly, “she had developed quite the reputation over the years.”

Hermione held her breath. “So, are you saying that things could’ve been different if Bellatrix had a real friend?”

“That’s debatable, Hermione,” Andromeda replied and sighed, tiredly running a hand over her face, “Just because she was nice to Cissy and I doesn’t mean she was to other people. It didn’t stop her from making scathing remarks about muggleborns and half-bloods. The gang she was part of frequently tormented students from other houses.” 

Hermione winced; she should’ve expected it. Bellatrix still wasn’t a particularly nice person after all.

“At the end of the day, she wasn’t innocent either. Her beliefs were stronger than her love for us, or at least for me… it didn’t stop her from readily disowning me. I may regret hiding behind her back all those years ago, but she still made her own choices at the end of the day.”

“Maybe… Maybe she had no choice?” Hermione hesitated. “Maybe she was forced to fullfill her duties as the eldest?” she tried hopefully.

“No, I don’t think so,” she interjected, her voice taking on a bitter edge. “She was never the type to let people force her into doing anything, especially not our parents. She simply became the monster that our Father was, taking great pleasure in inflicting unrelenting pain and anguish upon others. Perhaps she did it to forget all the pain that our Father caused her, perhaps she didn’t, it doesn’t really matter. She was an easy prey for Voldemort, and she let him brainwash her. I even wonder if she wasn’t in love with him… if she even still knew what love was after her escape from Azkaban, that is.”

Hermione’s stomach plummeted. So, she wasn’t the only one to think that she might have harboured such feelings for Voldemort at some point even if Bellatrix had vehemently denied it when she had confronted her. She gnawed at her bottom lip and stared into her mug again. Andromeda was evidently still furious at her elder sister no matter how many years had passed, and rightfully so. She couldn’t really blame her, but did it mean she would never forgive her if she knew the truth?

“I know what you’re thinking, Hermione,” Andromeda added, and her eyes widened a fraction. Was she an accomplished Legilimens like Bellatrix was? “You always see the best in people, and I’ve always admired that about you, but trust me, Bellatrix was too far gone at that point. No one could’ve helped her but herself. She _tortured_ you when you were only just becoming a young adult; she relentlessly tortured Neville’s parents, leaving him with parents who don’t even remember him; she _killed_ Sirius, her _own_ cousin, and likely didn’t even feel any remorse seeing as in her book, he was a blood traitor just as I was; and she _killed_ my sweet Dora, her _own_ niece, making Teddy an orphan. There’s no excuse for that, no matter how much we can try to twist it and make sense of why she did what she did.”

Hermione nodded and lowered her eyes, her bottom lip trembling and tears prickling in her eyes again. It was the first time she was having such a lengthy conversation about Bellatrix with anyone – well, the first time since she had a heart-to-heart with Professor McGonagall after that night in the Great Hall – and she forgot that everyone didn’t see her the way that she did. And it stung. It stung so much.

She jumped slightly when she felt Andromeda’s hand on hers again, her thumb lightly stroking her knuckles. “Hermione… I’m not mad at you for asking,” she softly said, “it makes sense that you would want to know more, but you have to understand she took way too much from all of us. There’s no redemption for her… even after death,” she finished.

 _But your sister isn’t really dead_ , she wanted to say. She wished she could just blurt it out and get this weight and stress that had been eating her off her shoulders and chest, but she knew it wouldn’t end well. It would only result in Bellatrix being captured and thrown back into prison, and it was the last thing she wanted. No, she couldn’t be reckless; she needed to come up with a plan of action.

She settled on nodding, and Andromeda warmly smiled at her, patting her hand before letting go.

“Thank you, Dromeda,” she mumbled, “I know how hard it must be for you to talk about her.”

“It is, but I know how much she affected you, Hermione. I can only hope it helped a little.”

“Yes… Thank you again.”

“Ah, don’t mention it. You’re family.”

The doorbell rang at that moment, announcing the arrival of Ron, Harry, Ginny, and their kids. She quickly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand again and downed her now cold tea.

Andromeda glanced towards the front door and turned to her. “Will you be okay, Hermione?” she asked before she stood up.

“Yes, I’m fine. Don’t worry. You can let them in.”

_No, she wasn’t._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my first time writing from another character's point of view (other than Hermione and Bellatrix) and we know so little about Andromeda, Teddy, and Cissy in canon so I hope I've done a good job with the characterisation. Let me know what you thought.


	9. Bad Omen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione being the HBIC.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and kudos! 
> 
> The new semester started on Monday for me, so my writing has slowed down a bit. I only have one chapter ready to be posted after this one, so hopefully I'll still be able to continue posting once a week. 
> 
> As always, I hope you will enjoy this chapter and I'm open to suggestions if you have any.

_You’re dark gray like a storm cloud  
Swelling up with rage that is desperate to be let out  
And I know it’s a heavy load  
Carrying those tears around  
Carrying those fears around  
Worry make the world go ‘round_

_You’re twisted up like a slip knot  
Tied by a juicehead who just took his t shot, and I know  
There’s a hungry dog tugging at your frayed ends  
But he’s just playing with you, he just wants to be your friend_

Burn the Pages _,_ Sia

_**AUROR OFFICE UNDER FIRE:** _   
_**BODY FOUND DEAD IN KNOCKTURN ALLEY** _   
_November 29, 2010_

_The Auror Office, main division of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, announced this morning that a man has been found dead in an alleyway in Knockturn Alley._

_Aurors were called to the infamous shopping area shortly after 5:30 this morning when Melvyn Mulpepper, of Mr Mulpepper’s Apothecary, stumbled across a body, who was declared dead at the scene and has not been identified as yet._

_“I was waiting for a delivery of Shrivelled Figs this morning when I noticed a body slumped in an unusual position,” Mr Mulpepper told our reporters, “I am absolutely appalled.”_

_Aurors conducted door-to-door inquiries in Knockturn Alley and have appealed for anyone with information on the latest murder to contact them. They have also urged anyone who may have witnessed anything suspicious in the area last night to come forward._

_Our reporters spoke to residents of Knockturn Alley and the surrounding streets, including Emeline Rosenberg of Wiseacre’s Wizarding Equipment, who said this – “It is absolutely terrifying that somebody was killed this close to Diagon Alley. It is most certainly going to affect our business, and I know other shop owners do not even want to open today for fear of what has just happened. How the Ministry expects us to do our jobs when they are not doing theirs, I’ll never know.”_

_Other residents expressed similar concerns, seeing as this is but the latest in a series of murders to occur in wizarding London, believed to be the work of Dark wizards or witches unknown. Do not be surprised if you go to the shopping district today and find that shops are not open._

_We have contacted the Auror Office for a statement, but they have declined to comment for now._

Hermione huffed and folded the newspaper irritably, slamming it onto the table next to her plate of scrambled eggs and avocado toast. She buried her hands in her hair and groaned. _Not again_ , she thought. This was the second murder in a month and the third in two months. What was going on? Something like this hadn’t happened since the ‘werewolf case’ a few years ago and not since the Second War.

She cursed the Daily Prophet reporters under her breath. Trust them to fearmonger people by mentioning it could be the work of Dark wizards and witches, thus reminding them of Voldemort’s reign of terror. This situation couldn’t even compare to the climate of unease and tension that marked Voldemort’s return in the mid-90s. Back then, there were clear signs that something dark and sinister was looming over them. Voldemort had been moving quietly, but effectively then; Dementors had stopped obeying the Ministry, and it had been evident when the imprisoned Death Eaters had been freed. The Ministry had handled it poorly of course, with Fudge preferring to turn a blind eye on everything hinting at Voldemort being at large once more and preferring to blame it on Sirius. The Ministry in 1995 and 1996 might have had the ‘luxury’ and ‘convenience’ of using someone else as a scapegoat, but she refused to; she _wouldn’t_ make the same mistakes. If something like this were to ever happen again, she would tell the wizarding community the truth rather than keeping them in the dark and feeding them lies.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? There was nothing to tell. She had absolutely nothing to tell them. _Nothing_. Because she didn’t know anything. The Auror Office was as clueless as she was; if they had any leads, they would tell her. Harry would, right? He told her last month that he would.

She gave a frustrated cry and looked down at the note next to the newspaper. It read:

_**Hermione,** _

_**Another body has been found.** _

_**Can you come up to the Auror Office as soon as you get to the Ministry?** _

_**I’m going to have an emergency meeting with the Department, and I want you to be there every step of the way like I promised last month.** _

_**Harry** _

Harry’s letter had arrived sometime after six; she had been woken up by his Snowy Owl’s incessant tapping on the window. Ron, ever the heavy sleeper, hadn’t even budged, and she hadn’t bothered wake him up so early in the morning on his day off; so, she had just gone downstairs and made herself an early breakfast. Today’s edition of the Daily Prophet had been delivered shortly after.

She hoped something would come out of the meeting; she or the Auror Office needed to put out an official statement, and the citizens would expect clear answers. If not, they would face a lot of backlash; the wizarding community needed to be reassured, it was her job to do so, or they would succumb to panic and paranoia and would end up mistrusting the government. They couldn’t afford that.

She was brought out of her musings when she felt hands on her shoulders. She slightly turned her head to the side and looked up; it was Ron. He sleepily smiled at her and leaned down to kiss her on the cheek, which made her flinch a little, yet she still gave him a small smile.

“Why are you up so early, Ron?”

“I couldn’t feel you in bed anymore, so I decided to come down and see what you were doing. What’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer. She handed him the Daily Prophet and Harry’s note instead and got up to clear her plate. She had barely eaten, and she realised she wasn’t that hungry anymore.

When she turned around, Ron had put the newspaper and the note back on the table and was frowning.

“Do you have any idea who might be behind this?” he inquired.

She leaned against the counter and crossed her arms. “Not really… the only thing I know is that these murders may be linked. Remember when Harry told me last month that so far, all the bodies that have turned up dead are that of people Aurors were already looking for and they all bear similar marks,” he nodded, “well, I guess we’ll have to see if this is the case with this one as well,” she sighed and rubbed at her temples. “If not, it would be an isolated case, and it wouldn’t make things better. It would just be yet another problem we have to take care of.”

Ron thought for a moment, his eyes darting across the kitchen. “It’s weird that Aurors have no clue at all. They usually have access to a lot of resources, which always help them solve cases. From the little time I worked in the Department, I learned that criminals usually leave little clues behind to get their message across, and there’s always a tiny flaw in their plan, which leads you to them. I’ve never encountered something like this before.”

Hermione hummed. “Harry thinks that it’s either someone working in our favour who doesn’t want to take credit, or simply someone taking the piss. Either way, they’re very smart.”

“Well, whoever it is, I’m sure they’ll find them,” Ron said and took a few steps forward, stopping before her, “You’ll think of something, Mione. You always do,” he supplied reassuringly, gently pulling her against him and wrapping his arms around her.

She wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes. She felt him kiss her head and slowly, gently massage her shoulders, and she sighed, relaxing a little.

“You’re so tense, Mione. Work is causing you too much stress.”

 _If only work was the only reason_ , she thought to herself bitterly.

“I have no choice,” she groaned, her voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt. “I knew what I was getting myself into when I first ran for the elections.”

“I know, Mione, but everyone deserves a break from time to time. I know it’s only Monday, but” he started and ran his hands down her arms to take her hands in his, “what do you say we have a night out after work? We could have dinner at the Italian restaurant you like so much.”

Hermione tensed a little as she hadn’t anticipated his question. They hadn’t had a night to themselves in so long because they were just so busy with work and they always came back home completely tired, especially her due to all the paperwork; it would be nice to just spend time together for once, she thought, but something at the back of her mind kept nagging her. She couldn’t place her finger on what it was – _you know what it is_ , the sly voice in her head pointed out – but it was there and getting stronger by the second.

She slightly pulled away and looked up at him. “I don’t know, Ron…” she started.

“We won’t come back home late, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said quickly, “I know you have to be up early, and so do I.”

She stared at him wordlessly for a moment, her eyes darting back and forth between his. The hopeful look in his eyes told her how much he clearly wanted this, and it caused a smile to form on her lips; she had always found it hard to say ‘no’ to him when he was looking at her like this. It was just very endearing; it was the look she had fallen in love with all those years ago.

She slowly nodded and the smile on his face made her heart ache. He leaned in and gently kissed her, and she returned his kiss for a moment; and her stomach churned with guilt when he moved to deepen it and she slightly turned her face so that his lips landed on her cheek instead.

She pretended she had moved away to hug him, and she checked her watch as she wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders for a moment. It was nearing seven. She usually went to the Ministry around eight but given the circumstances she ought to go earlier and she had a feeling Harry and most of the Aurors were already there, hard at work.

“Go back to sleep, Ron, it’s way too early. You deserve to rest on your day off,” she softly said after completely pulling away from him and taking a step back.

He nodded. “Try not to stress yourself too much, Mione, okay? It will be alright.” He kissed her on the temple one last time and took a few steps back as well.

She hummed her appreciation and moved past him.

***

The lift came to a stop, and the cool female voice made her announcement again: “Level Two: Department of Magical Law Enforcement” and the golden grilles opened.

Something was definitely not right, she thought to herself as she stepped out into the long corridor, which was lined with doors on either side. The entire floor was deathly quiet, though she supposed it had more to do with it being only seven in the morning than anything else, but she couldn’t seem to shake off her gut feeling. She just couldn’t.

She quickly reached the end of the corridor and arrived at the door of the Auror Office, pushing it open.

If anyone without prior knowledge of the wizarding world and the Ministry stepped foot here for the first time, they wouldn’t be able to tell right away that this was a Law Enforcement Office, for the Auror Office looked more like some sort of triage centre than anything else.

The Office took up most of Level Two and it was the most renowned among the public, but countless cabinets, on top of which were other piles of files that didn’t fit into the other cabinets, lined the grey walls; and rows and rows of open cubicles, with cardboard boxes filled with files and other stuff, lay before her. Only if you looked closer would you see that the cubicles were decorated with pictures of known ‘Dark’ wizards, criminals, maps, and clippings from the Daily Prophet.

The cubicles were usually occupied by Ministry officials, but they were now obviously vacant due to the early hour.

The Auror Office might be one of the most known sub-divisions of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and of the Ministry of Magic in general, but there was one big misconception about the inner workings of the Office: most of the people working here weren’t Aurors per se.

For one, Aurors didn’t visit the Office every day. They were mainly field agents who spent most of their time investigating, hunting criminals and ‘Dark’ wizards (not so much after the Second War), and guarding places and people, like they had done with Harry and the Minister for Magic at the height of the war. The only times that they were ever seen in the Office were to brief, debrief, bring in suspects and culprits, interrogate them, or write up reports. The people who worked here on a daily basis were mostly file clerks who took care of all the paperwork needed for the Office to function properly, but the most permanent presence in the Office was the Head Auror.

Contrary to popular belief, the Head Auror’s duties were mostly organisational and second in power only to the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, as opposed to the Aurors’s field-oriented work. The Head Auror did head out into the field from time to time, but they were the one who sent the Aurors on their assignments and gave them their orders; they were a strategic leader, whose presence and judgement were necessary and key for very important assignments. The Head Auror answered directly to the Head of the Department.

There were no ranks to being an Auror; they worked individually in most cases and all had equal responsibilities and powers. A lot of respect and deference were given to the more senior and experienced Aurors, but that didn’t mean the younger or newer Aurors weren’t important at all; it was merely a matter of principle.

But where were they?

She was well aware it was too early to be at the Ministry, but surely some of them were here? They couldn’t have just gone back home until opening hours after having discovered a dead body on the street. And Harry did send her a note at the crack of dawn, so he _had_ to be here?

She walked to the door on the other side of the room. The Auror emblem, a large ‘M’ with a wand sitting upright in the middle of it, was carved into the polished wood, and next to it was a golden plate:

**HARRY POTTER**

**HEAD AUROR**

Hermione knocked on the door and waited. The customary ‘come in’ didn’t come. She knocked again, this time a bit more firmly, the sound echoing throughout the Office. She waited again, only to be faced with the same silence.

“Harry?”

Nothing. She couldn’t hear any movement in his office.

“Minister Granger!” someone called out suddenly.

She jumped and immediately turned around, cursing inwardly as she did so.

A short brunette with wire-rimmed glasses was standing a few feet from her down the winding corridor leading to other parts of the Office; it was the Assistant to the Undersecretary, Amanda Broadmoor.

“Good morning, Amanda,” she greeted. “Where’s everyone? I know it’s very early, but I thought that some of them would be here by now,” she sighed tiredly.

“Oh yes, they’re in the main conference room, ma’am,” Amanda explained, “I was sent out to check if you had arrived.”

Hermione nodded and they quickly walked down the corridor towards the conference room in silence.

When she peeked into the room, her mood somewhat worsened and didn’t mitigate the feelings in the pit of her stomach. The air in the room was stuffy and thick and heavily smelled of coffee; it was nauseating. The strong scent always made her feel queasy, ever since she was little.

The lights in the room were bright enough and causing her head to throb with pain. Ten cushioned chairs were situated around a polished mahogany oval table. She knew the seat at the head of the table was assigned to her and the two next to her to her Undersecretary, Augustus Oddpick, and the Assistant to the Undersecretary. The one at the other end of the table was usually assigned to the Head Auror, in this case Harry, and the remaining ones to the Aurors and a barrister, most likely Draco Malfoy.

He had become one after working in other Departments after the war. He mostly worked with the Wizengamot now and had sent a lot of pureblood supremacy sympathisers and other hate groups to Azkaban; he excelled at his job and also worked with the Auror Office from time to time.

She looked around. All of them seemed to be here; some of them already sitting and quietly talking among themselves, others making themselves another cup of coffee to help wake themselves up, hiding their yawns behind their hands. She caught Harry’s eye; he gave her a kind nod from his spot before gesturing to her seat. He received an urgent letter and went to handle the matter at hand, leaving them to converse before the meeting began.

“Minister Granger? Would you like something to drink? Coffee perhaps?” Amanda asked.

She shook her head. “No, but tea will do if we have any.”

The young Assistant nodded wordlessly; she turned, busied herself making a cup of tea, and handed it to her a minute later. She whispered her thanks and quietly sipped it, moving to take her seat at the head of the table.

“Why, don’t you look tired today, Granger,” a voice drawled impassively behind her.

She turned around and rubbed her forehead with her free hand.

Draco Malfoy.

He was perfectly dressed as always in a grey tweed suit and without a single platinum blond hair out of place, but his pinched brows and lips gave away his disinterest and vague annoyance at being summoned so early.

“That’s because I _am_ tired. Bugger off, Malfoy,” she grumbled in a voice only he could hear and took a sip of her tea.

The Slytherin gave a gasp of mock offence and shock. “Such language from the Minister for Magic,” he tsk-ed, “What’s got your knickers in a twist, Granger?” he smirked.

Hermione noted the resemblance to Bellatrix in that moment; they both always smirked in that infuriating way when they knew they were aggravating the other person. _Must be a Slytherin or Black family trait_ , she thought to herself.

“It’s way too early to be dealing with your pompous arse,” she quipped, “It’s a wonder Astoria hasn’t filed for divorce yet.”

He snorted and ran a hand through his hair. “And it’s still a mystery how you and Weasley are still together. No one wants to be with a know-it-all bookworm.”

Hermione nearly choked on her tea. She knew he was only joking and getting back at her for her jibe – after so many years, she knew when he was being malicious and when he wasn’t – but he had always been a bit too blunt for her liking, and there was still a big part of her that wondered if there was some truth to his statement. It still rubbed her the wrong way and her defences rose of their own accord.

 _“No one wants to be with a know-it-all bookworm”,_ the grating voice in her head repeated. _“And a cheater,” it added._

Her playful mood dropped, and it must’ve shown on her face because his smirk dropped and he slightly frowned.

“You’re a slimy prat, you know that?” she hissed. There were others in the room, so she couldn’t raise her voice.

“Hey, you started it!” he whispered, immediately holding his hands up. “What’s this really about?”

“Whatever, _Draco_ ,” she huffed caustically and went to walk to her seat, but he quickly held her back, some of her tea splashing out of the cup she was holding.

“Look, I don’t know what’s got you so cranky today,” he started, “but I’m sorry.”

_I’m sorry._

Those were the same words he had uttered all those years ago when he had been assigned as her assistant when she was still working in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

_“Granger?” he said one day while she was filling a report._

_“Hm?” she didn’t bother look up._

_“I’m sorry.”_

_She blinked and dropped her pen. “What?” she breathed out._

_“I’m sorry,” he repeated, scratching his neck and looking away for a second._

_“Whatever for?” she asked incredulously. “You didn’t snap at one of the elves again, did you?”_

_“Of course not,” he groaned with a smooth roll of his eyes. “It’s just… I’ve never really apologised for how I behaved while we were in school,” he explained, and her eyes widened when she realised where this conversation was heading. “I know I wasn’t the nicest person then, and I know I made your life hell at times,” she quirked an eyebrow, “okay… all the time,” he corrected. “I just let my Father dictate my views, and I didn’t know any better. The war made me realise how meaningless blood status is. No one’s blood is ‘dirty’” he pointedly looked at her, making her understand what he was referring to, and she nodded, cradling her forearm with her palm. “I know I can’t go back in time and make up for all of my mistakes; all I can do is try to move forward and ask for forgiveness,” he finished._

_“Draco…” she started softly, and his icy grey eyes met hers. “I forgave you and your mother a long time ago. Yes, you were a pompous, arrogant arse,” she admitted, and he chuckled, “but we were all so young. I know you were simply misguided. What happened wasn’t your fault,” she supplied, knowing he was still wracked by guilt over Dumbledore’s death, “and I don’t have the energy to hold on to hate or resentment. Not anymore.”_

_“Thank you.”_

_She nodded her acknowledgement._

Hermione deflated and sighed. “No, it’s fine. It’s my fault, sorry,” she mumbled.

“You sure everything’s fine, Granger?” he asked in a low voice.

“Since when do you care about my well-being, Malfoy?” she smirked.

“I don’t,” he smirked back, “I simply don’t want to be blamed for your bad mood.”

“Right,” she laughed and shook her head.

Harry returned at that moment, and everyone took their seats. She took another sip of her tea before taking out a pen and a piece of parchment from her bag to take dutiful notes. She looked across the table at Harry and nodded at him slowly, signalling he could start the meeting. She would usually be the one to talk and explain why they were here, but she hadn’t been the one to call for a meeting this time, so she would let Harry handle it. Besides, she didn’t really have anything of importance to say seeing as she was in the dark regarding the situation; this wasn’t her realm.

Harry cleared his throat and stood up. “First of all, thank you all for coming on such short, unexpected notice,” he began, eyes sweeping the room. “Again, I do apologise for the inconvenience, but as we all know, another body has turned up dead in Knockturn Alley at around 5:30 this morning. We’re here to discuss our plan of action regarding the matter at hand.”

He flicked his wand and a bunch of papers appeared in front of each of them: photographs and a wanted poster. The person on the wanted poster was a guy who looked to be in his thirties and whose pale face was half-covered by his jet-black hair at shoulder-length. He looked extremely gaunt and haggard; but the look in his eyes was that of a cold, calculated mad man; that cold, steely look was that of an unapologetic assassin; a predator.

She suppressed a shudder and turned the poster over so she wouldn’t have to look at him any longer; it was almost like he was staring right into her soul.

“Who’s this?” Draco drawled, asking what she was thinking.

“This,” Harry explained, “is Alvin Dedworth. It’s a recent case, and by recent, I mean _two weeks old_ ,” he insisted.

Hermione raised her eyebrows. She had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach; if this meant what she thought it meant, then she didn’t like it.

“Two weeks ago, it came to the Department’s attention that there is or _was_ a black market in Hogsmeade. Someone was selling various artefacts, illegal potions and charms, Polyjuice, and so on, to the students. The most sold product was a potion which makes the drinker feel awake and energised at all times as long as they keep taking it.”

Ah yes, the Insomnia Potion. Hermione was very familiar with it; she had come across it in one book while doing research for her Potions essay in her Second Year. It was a highly addictive potion – one of the most addictive in the world, actually – so it was strictly regulated and was only ever prescribed to wizards and witches in cases of medical emergencies or depending on one’s professional situation, say if one practised a job that required them to stay alert and awake at all times. And even then, it was prescribed in very small doses since it could get out of control very quickly.

She had considered taking it at the end of her Second Year, what with all the classes she had chosen to take for her Third Year. It wasn’t such a hard potion to make, though some of the ingredients were very rare, but she had brewed Polyjuice Potion, so she was sure she could’ve managed to also make a batch of that potion. However, she had discarded the idea and never considered it again when Professor McGonagall had allowed her to use a Time Turner to attend all of her classes without missing any of them.

She was well-aware that the exam period in Hogwarts was highly stress and anxiety-inducing (she, of all people would know), and it also didn’t help that the Professors tended to overwhelm them with extra assignments. Too many times she had witnessed students crumbling under the weight of all the work they had to do, so, as sad as it sounded, it didn’t necessarily surprise her all that much that the situation hadn’t changed in the eleven years since she had graduated.

She shook her head and frowned. She jotted down a few notes and looked up at Harry pointedly and questioningly. Where was he going with this? Evidently, the Aurors present here already knew about this case, but she didn’t. And neither did her Undersecretary and his Assistant, and Draco by the looks of it. This would be considered a ‘minor case’ and since Aurors tended to work individually on their cases, it wouldn’t have been brought to her attention unless it posed a great threat to the wizarding world.

Harry cleared his throat again before carrying on. “It didn’t take long for our Aurors to identify who the smuggler was but locating and catching him proved to be a hassle as he only ever really was in the area around Hogsmeade weekend, so once every month or two. Smugglers are smart. They are well-organised; they work in networks of secret independent groups and often times, these connections can transcend borders. Many of them are masters at gaming our system for that reason, so tracking them can be quite the challenge, but it’s not impossible. Anyway, seeing as there’s supposed to be another Hogsmeade weekend before the Yule break, Aurors were supposed to be stationed there to watch out for any suspect activity, like students straying from the path and venturing into the surrounding area. We were also supposed to hand out the wanted poster that I’ve just shown you to the owners of each shop so that they could also be more vigilant and report to us if they happened to see him.”

That sounded like a good enough plan to Hermione. Plastering the wanted poster all over Hogsmeade and other parts of the wizarding world, like Diagon Alley, would’ve been counterproductive. It would’ve made their job of catching him even harder; the best way to catch a smuggler was at their own game.

“The problem,” Harry continued and removed his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose, “is that no one but the Auror Department knew about this case and we hadn’t even handed out the wanted poster yet, so-”

“So, you think there’s either a mole in the Ministry or someone else was already aware of the situation and decided to take matters into their own hands,” Malfoy finished, not even looking up from his notes. He looked _bored_ and over the situation.

 _That makes two of us_ , she thought to herself.

“Precisely,” Harry sighed.

“So, what seems to be the cause of death here?” Hermione chimed in, drumming her fingers on the table. Her frustration was slowly mounting, and it was only a matter of time before it boiled over, and she exploded. She needed _clear_ answers. This was getting ridiculous.

“We’re going to have to wait for the official autopsy report for that, but if you examine the photographs,” he took one of the photographs in front of him and held it up, “you can see clearly see that he was bitten on the neck.”

Hermione flipped through the photographs on the table and took the one Harry was showing them. She studied it; the body was slumped against the brick wall of the alleyway in such a way that it looked like his head had clearly been badly twisted, and his arm had also been twisted off at the elbow joint. He lay in a pool of his own blood. His dark hair and clothes were stained with dried blood; crimson. His steely eyes were wide open, but his irises held a look of shock and horror as though he had seen something terrifying seconds before dying.

Her gut lurched, like the deck of a ship in a storm.

It was almost like the man’s head had been turned to the side to intentionally show the bite on his neck; it was evidently a canine bite, but there was no way to tell if it was a dog bite or a werewolf bite just by looking at the photographs. It was like the person or the _thing_ that had done this was taunting them. It was as though they were saying, _“I’ve outsmarted you again.”_

Harry was still talking but she tuned out for a moment. He was rambling on the other cases and their connection to this one. She had heard this time and time again. She examined the other photographs, all of which depicted the alleyway itself from different angles.

There was only one way in and out of the alleyway; it was narrow and dark, not to mention littered with trash, and it looked like it could only accommodate two people walking side-by-side. It would be very easy to lure someone there and prevent them from escaping. Knockturn Alley was infamously known for housing unusual, sinister and sometimes dangerous individuals; that hadn’t changed since the end of the war, though dark artefacts were no longer sold there.

So, it wouldn’t be unusual for a smuggler to lurk there for potential clients, and it also wasn’t hard for her to imagine a confrontation between smuggler and client over increasing prices spiralling out of control – it happened a lot in the Muggle world. But this wasn’t the Muggle world. Things like this just didn’t happen in the wizarding world; it wasn’t that easy. Besides, there didn’t seem to be any sign of struggle on the photographs, so the only conclusion that she could draw was that the body had been Apparated here.

She pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head. She would have to check-

“-talk with the werewolves.”

_What?_

“No, you can’t talk to the werewolves,” she interjected, and everyone’s eyes turned to her.

“Why not?” one of the newer additions to the Auror Office, a young man in his early to mid-twenties with blond hair and freckles scattered all across his face, asked.

“Because,” she huffed and tossed the photographs on the table, “talking to them and asking them if one of their own is going around killing other people would greatly offend them. Werewolves have been shunned by wizarding society for the longest time, and our relationship with them only improved a few years ago when we finally repealed the restrictive anti-werewolf legislation. As a result, they are now able to find employment in any field that they want to work in, and many of them no longer live in abject poverty.”

She noticed the young Auror flush as she ranted, and she also heard, rather than saw, Draco swallow his laugh under the guise of coughing. She knew what he was thinking: _‘know-it-all.’_

“I used to work in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures,” she continued, “trust me, you don’t want to offend them. Besides, some of them, even if it’s a small number, still resent the Ministry and wizarding society for the centuries-long oppression and discrimination, and live in their own society with their own rules. But if you want to antagonise them and deal with a possible uprising, and also clash with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, then sure, go ahead and seek them out.”

Her tirade was met with silence as they all pondered over her words. Well, all of them except Draco and Harry, who was smiling at her with embarrassment.

“Well, okay, what I suggest that we do for now until we get the autopsy report, which shouldn’t take that long, is that we have Aurors patrol Knockturn Alley and other high-risk areas like Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, and Hogwarts for good measure. It would also be wise to establish a curfew in Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley to ensure the safety of the residents. What do you think, Minister?”

“Shop owners are already miffed that these murders affect their business. Telling them they have to close earlier than usual will only contribute to their discontent and frustration. What is more, from what we’ve seen so far, only criminals the Auror Office is looking for are being targeted. No one is going after the citizens, so I don’t think a curfew would stop the person or… the _creature_ behind all of this.”

“Yet.”

“What?” Hermione’s head snapped to the young Auror.

The blond-haired man straightened up and held his head high. “There’s no telling ordinary wizards and witches won’t be targeted. You’ve been opposed to all of our suggestions so far: you don’t want us to talk to the werewolf community, you don’t want to establish a curfew,” he remarked critically, and she felt her left eye twitch in annoyance. “What do you suggest we do? You’re endangering your own citizens.”

“I beg your pardon!” she snapped and slammed both the flats of her hands on the table as she jumped to her feet. “Listen here, Mister…”

“Bletchley.”

“Listen here, Mister Bletchley, the safety of _my_ citizens is something I hold very close to my heart. In the two years I’ve been Minister for Magic, nothing of this magnitude has happened. So, I will kindly thank you not to overstep the mark and accuse me. Rather, ask yourself why the Auror Office isn’t doing its job and why you’ve let this situation get to this point,” she retorted harshly, watching as the young Auror bristled at the obvious dig and glared at her.

“Miss Granger, if I may-” Osmond Goodmane, another Auror who had been working in the Department for fifteen years, intervened.

“ _Minister_ Granger,” she corrected in a calm, yet assertive voice.

“ _Minister_ Granger, if I may-”

“Yes, you may.”

His jaw clenched. “The Auror Office has been working tooth and nail on this case over the past couple of weeks, gathering what little pieces of evidence we could find and correlating them to try and identify who or _what_ may be behind this. We are trying, but we’ve simply reached a deadlock and outside help is needed at this point.”

She sighed. “Look, I know how taxing your job is, and I understand the need to follow up on possible leads, but I simply cannot allow you to contact the werewolf community right now without being absolutely sure that it has anything to do with them. You’d also have to consult the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing else I can do.”

Goodmane nodded, and she could tell he didn’t agree with her from the way he pursed his lips and folded his arms, but he didn’t say anything more.

“Okay then,” Harry said calmly in an attempt to assuage the tension that was gradually rising within the room, “here’s what we’re going to do: I will assign some Aurors the task of patrolling Knockturn Alley and other areas that could potentially be home to outlaws; we will discuss this in more details once everyone is here. Doing inquiries within the werewolf community is still on the table but for now it’s out of the question until we get the autopsy report,” he looked at Hermione, who nodded and gave him a reassuring smile. “Last but not least, I suggest we have a look at recent deaths in Muggle London and its surroundings to see if we can find a pattern. If you could put in a word with the Prime Minister so we can have access to those files, _Minister_ Granger,” Harry emphasised with a knowing smile.

She returned his smile. “That, I can do. Will that be all?” she asked, knowing the meeting was coming to an end. There was nothing more to say on the matter for now.

“Yes,” Harry nodded, “I will put out an official statement later today. Thank you all for coming.”

She shoved her notes in her bag as she stood up and was the first to exit the conference room, but not before hearing Harry stop Bletchley so he could have a word with him. He was probably going to berate him for talking down to her, she thought to herself as she swiftly walked towards the lift to go down to her office.

She had just reached her office when she heard another pair of feet following her.

“Got down on the wrong floor, Malfoy? What do you want?” she asked, not even bothering to turn around as she opened the door. She didn’t need to; she just knew it was him.

As expected, he followed her inside. “Don’t you think you were a bit harsh there?”

She set her bag down on her desk and finally turned around, leaning against the wooden edge and crossing her arms. He was casually leaning against the now closed door, his arms crossed over his chest, legs crossed at the ankles, and an insufferable smirk planted on his smug face as always.

“No, I wasn’t,” she replied irritably, “I wasn’t about to let some newbie talk down to me like that as though I need my job to be spelled out to me, especially not a _man_ ,” she ranted. “If he spent half as much time on actually catching whoever’s behind these murders as he did explaining to others how they should do their jobs, we wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with. If I were a man, he wouldn’t even dare talk to me like that. He would-”

“You need to get laid.”

“ _What?!_ ” she exclaimed, her eyes wide and cheeks flaming red.

“You’re so bloody tense, Granger. Something is clearly bothering you and you’re taking it out on others.”

“Someone or something is going around murdering people! Of course I’m tense, Malfoy!” she groaned, throwing her hands up. “I don’t see how my sex life has any relevance here! Not to mention, it’s none of your business!”

“I’m not blind, Granger. You haven’t been yourself for the past couple of weeks. Is Weasley not taking care of things down there?” he chuckled and flippantly gestured to her.

“Wh- Why are you- Do you even hear yourself?!” she spluttered, his smirk only growing at her reaction. 

“So, I’m right. You know, you just have to say it and I’ll find you someone. No one will even kn-”

“Oh my God, will you stop it! I would _never_ -” she cried, growing more and more agitated by the second.

This was ridiculous. How had they even gone from talking about her almost-fight with the Bletchley git to talking about her sex life in the blink of an eye? Malfoy was just as unpredictable and unashamed as Bellatr- _No,_ she told herself. _Don’t go there._ Considering the topic at hand, thinking about the dark witch right now wouldn’t help; if anything, it would only contribute to her flustration and agitation, and she would end up blurting out something she didn’t mean to.

“God, you make it too easy, Granger,” Malfoy shook his head. “Relax, you damned harpy, I’m only joking. I couldn’t care less about your bedroom antics,” he shuddered in mock horror and disgust.

“Very funny, _ferret boy_ ” she shot back dryly and moved around her desk. “You’re a _pain_. You’re just like-”

She snapped her mouth shut, catching herself at the last second. Her hands grew clammy as she realised she had just been about to tell him he was just like his _dear_ aunt; just as insufferable; just as infuriating; just as nosy; just as arrogant.

She fidgeted her hands behind her back for a second to appease her emotions, but it did little. She took out a piece of parchment from one of the drawers instead, and slammed it onto the wooden surface. First things first, she needed to write to the Muggle Prime Minister and put in a request to-

“I’m just like what?”

Her head snapped back up to him, a look of curiosity and confusion plastered across his face.

“Nothing. Drop it,” she mumbled distractedly as she busied herself looking for a pen. Anything to move away from her almost Freudian slip. God, she would’ve had a lot to answer to if she had finished her sentence. She dreaded to even think about it.

“Honestly, what’s up with you? You-” he pressed on.

“I said, leave it!” she hissed, and he narrowed his eyes. “Surely, you didn’t come down here just to tease me and be snarky. What do you want? I have a busy day ahead.”

“I was going to ask if you’d be free for lunch later but forget it. I’ve no desire to be around a stuck-up lunatic,” he spat coldly.

She looked at him, dumbfounded; her face burned with anger and shame, her fists clenching. Anger that he couldn’t have just outright asked her instead of further aggravating her after that _disastrous_ meeting, and shame that she had snapped at him when he wasn’t even at the root of all of her frustration as of late.

“And you couldn’t just say that from the start, could you?” she bit back. “You just had to be a royal prat, didn’t you?”

“You know what,” he sneered. “I’m leaving. Have fun brooding and being a condescending _cunt_ to everyone around you.” And with that, he opened the door and left.

She gasped and went after him. “Come back here, Malfoy!” she hissed heatedly, but he only gave her a two-fingered salute and disappeared around the corridor.

She grumbled “twat” under her breath and closed the door.

She sat at her desk and pressed her fists to her eyes in frustration. This day couldn’t get any worse, could it? And it was barely nine. As if being woken up by bad news and almost fighting with the Aurors over their plan of action wasn’t enough, now she also had to add ‘apologise to Draco Malfoy’ to her long list of things to do today. She was at least grateful the Ministry was fairly empty for now, so no one had witnessed their shouting match; otherwise, the rumour mill would’ve spread itself.

She huffed for what had to be the thousandth time that morning and set to work. She would first draft the letter she planned on sending to the Muggle Prime Minister. Then, she would review her notes on the Wizengamot hearing regarding Clause Three of the Code of Wand Use that she was supposed to chair at ten. A Goblin had recently assaulted a wizard in Diagon Alley and snatched their wand, shouting to anyone who would listen that they were still being denied the possibility of extending their powers.

The Goblin had sadly been arrested, and the Wand Ban, passed by the Wizards’ Council in 1631, as well as Goblin representation on the Wizengamot had been brought back onto the table by the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

Her position on the matter was known. She had fought for it when she still worked in the Department, but no matter how many years passed, wizarding society and the Wizengamot were still fiercely against allowing other magical beings the right to carry a wand; they still held on to the Goblin Rebellion of 1612. There was nothing she could really do as Minister for Magic now even if she wanted to grant them that right; the verdicts were decided by a majority vote.

She tiredly rubbed her eyes with the back of her hands. She’d barely been sleeping more than five hours a night for the past weeks, but with the pile of files and reports littering her desk, she knew that relaxing anytime soon was out of the question.

She could only hope that the raven-haired witch, who wouldn’t leave her thoughts alone, was fairing much better than she was, wherever she was and whatever she was doing.


	10. The Dark Night of the Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellatrix is up to something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I should include a trigger warning for this chapter... it's nothing really explicit or graphic, but there are references to self-harm, suicidal thoughts, childhood abuse, and torture. I feel it's to be expected with a character like Bellatrix, but yeah. I hope it won't be too much.

_When despair for the world grows in me  
and I wake in the night at the least sound  
in fear of what my life and children’s lives may be,  
I go and lie down where the wood drake  
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.  
I come into the peace of wild things  
who do not tax their lives with forethought  
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.  
And I feel above me the day-blind stars  
waiting with their light. For a time  
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free._

The Peace of Wild Things, Wendell Berry

Bellatrix huffed and pushed back the stray curl that kept falling over her face as she stirred the bubbling liquid anti-clockwise twenty-six times and then four times clockwise with one hand and jotted down notes with the other. She grabbed the conical flask, which she uncorked with her teeth, and slowly emptied its contents into the cauldron all the while continuing to stir.

She slowly and carefully increased the temperature, staring down into the brew, and frowned when the liquid slowly thickened and darkened to a deep green colour. A small puff of green vapour escaped from the cauldron, and she scrunched her nose up at the smell; it was foul and vile. She coughed and leafed through the stacks of papers scattered on the table. Black ink and indecipherable scrawling tainted leaf after leaf of parchment: equations, diagrams, formulas, charts, wand motions…

She gnawed at her bottom lip thoughtfully as an idea crossed her mind. She waved her hand so that the ladle continued to stir the potion on its own, and hastily moved to the other table on which were various piles of books: Potions, Arithmancy, Herbology, Charms, Alchemy… She took the second book from the pile of Potions books and slammed it onto the table, a cloud of dust hovering in the air as she did so, and skimmed through the pages until she found the piece of information she was looking for. Not wanting to check the book every other second, she intently stared at the contents on the page for a moment and moved back to the simmering cauldron once she had the movements memorised.

She pulled up her hair into a messy bun, which she secured with her wand, and took hold of the ladle. The potion was starting to turn brown and sludgy just like she had predicted. She closed her eyes and recited the movements that she’d committed to memory: stir clockwise, draw a cross, stir anti-clockwise, move up and down, and finish with another cross. She took a deep breath, gagging slightly on the smell before she slowly stirred the thick mixture and did the movements she had memorised. She waited a minute, then pulled her wand from her hair and tapped the cauldron once, muttering the spell; the white light struck the surface of the potion four times. She waited.

Nothing happened for a few seconds, then she watched intently as the potion started to change colour. It became black as night. She frowned: it should have turned a silvery colour with wisps of brown mixed in. Had she done something wrong? She checked her notes and the book again to make sure she hadn’t missed any steps, and her brows knitted together in confusion; she hadn’t, so what-

Her head snapped back to the cauldron when the potion suddenly hissed loudly. She leaned forward and curiously peeked into it; the potion was bubbling dangerously, and a loud hissing noise filled the makeshift potions lab every time that one of the bubbles popped. _It’s not supposed to be doing that_ , she thought to herself. She moved to lower the temperature but at that moment, the brew bubbled over the top of the cauldron and she barely had time to leap backwards before an explosion racked the room, the contents of her potion spraying and splashing in all directions.

“Salazar’s hairy balls!” she hissed when specks of the potion singed the skin of her hands.

The heat was unbearable. Tiny purple blisters rapidly spread across her hands and around her wrists, swelling and bursting on the burns, and she held back a yell of pain as best as she could. She gritted her teeth and moved to the cabinet on the other side of the room. She rummaged through it for a moment and took out Burn-Healing Paste. She was running short on Essence of Dittany, she would have to make some more sometime soon, so she wouldn’t waste what little she had left; these weren’t major burns. She applied some of the thick orange paste on her hands and wrists and then placed plum leaves to counteract the pain, which she then secured with bandages.

Once she was done, she turned around and surveyed the damage from the explosion. Large chunks of pewter and the ingredients were strewn across the table, and the dark substance covered the table, the wall, and the floor. She sighed and vanished the remains of the potions, cleaned the stirring and cutting tools, the chopping board, and the counter with a flick of her wand. As she watched the room go back to its initial state, she thanked the Heavens for having the common sense to cast a permanent protective charm on her notes and keeping other copies of them somewhere else. This was knowledge she had acquired over the years and her travels, and she wouldn’t risk losing it for anything in the world.

She dipped her quill in ink and noted down her findings. She furiously crossed out the combination she tried today. The potion was nearly done: she had all the ingredients necessary to brew it, she had the formula figured out, but she needed to work out the right dosage so that it would have the same results every time when coupled with the charm. All she would need once she overcame that hurdle would be a few people (most likely Muggles) to test it on. Hopefully, it would be ready before the end of this month. 

She raked a hand through her hair and let out a deep breath. She wondered what time it was. She assumed it must be late into the night because she remembered that Pinky had come in at some point to remind her to take breaks and eat. Speaking of which, the plate of beef and gravy with roasted potatoes that the house-elf had brought in remained untouched. She was sure Pinky would scold her tomorrow – she took great offence when someone didn’t eat the meal she had prepared – but she hadn’t been all that hungry a few hours ago and stopping to eat would’ve meant losing time and she couldn’t afford that. She couldn’t remember who had said that and where she had read it, but time was money.

“Tempus,” she muttered. It was almost midnight.

It had been too long of a day. She had a kink between her shoulder blades and in her neck from bending it all day, and her skin felt sticky; all that rushing around the potions lab, jotting down notes, checking her books and getting ingredients, and the scorching temperature in the room had made her perspire profusely. Her black dress was damp with sweat, and her hair felt like a woollen shawl against the back of her neck and shoulders. She was in dire need of a shower. No, a _bath_.

She exited the makeshift lab and sealed the door. There wasn’t anyone in the Manor besides herself and Pinky, but one never knew.

Her steps echoed in the empty hallways of the Manor, each seeming too loud against the silence as she ascended the stairs. She always felt conspicuous inside the gigantic Manor. It was so austere, devoid of inhabitation, its furnishing so antique that it seemed more like a museum than a home. Some of the rooms had never even seen a guest, despite being adorned with the most stylish of furniture. With no carpeting to muffle steps or voices, every little sound carried from one end to the other, resounding ad infinitum.

The only background sound was the low whisperings of the curtain-covered portraits. She absolutely abhorred this wretched place on every conceivable level. She had sworn not to set foot back into this place ever again when she had left, and yet she had been spending the last few months here, in the very house where so many unspeakable things had taken place. Most of all, she hated that she had to be here, in this house of horrors, but she was left no choice. Their family house in Northern France was no longer safe, she had nowhere else to stay in, and besides, all the answers she needed were here.

Sometimes, if she focused hard enough, she could hear the angry, abusive voices in her mind, yelling at her that it was all her fault; and she could see the impassive face of Druella Black and the anxious faces of two girls with wide and tear-filled eyes. Her ears started to buzz and she clenched her fists, quickening her pace and taking another set of stairs two by two.

She burst into her room at the end of the hall and rushed into the spacious bathroom. She slammed the door behind her and waved her hand at the bathtub, which immediately filled with foamy water. She stripped, carelessly tossed her clothes to the floor, and stepped into the bathtub, lowering herself into the water.

She couldn’t help but let out a relaxed sigh when the warm water enveloped her aching body like liquid silk caressing her limbs, her sensitive skin tingling as she sank deeper into the bathtub until the water reached her nose. She closed her eyes and remained in that position for a moment before she allowed the tepid water to rise above her head and swallow her. The calmness of it all – being surrounded by water, her hair floating by her face, feeling her ears empty, hearing nothing for once but the quiet sensation of her own heart beating and the low echoing sound of being underwater… it was somewhat peaceful.

If only her lungs would allow her to stay. Her chest slowly started to tighten, causing her lungs to wheeze for oxygen, and she ignored it for a moment, willing herself to remain underwater.

 _Would it be so bad?_ she thought for a split second, but then slowly rose up and broke the surface, her wet hair clinging to her body. She pulled it out of her eyes and blinked slowly.

She rested her head against the tub and her arms against the rims and stared at the ceiling, pondering over what dosage would work best with the Arithmantic equation she had devised. The stirring rotations had been somewhat easy to figure out. Many potions used operations like the eighth or ninth roots to invoke the correct effect and splitting the number of stirs in half and doing it twice served to increase the potency. She also knew using an odd-numbered list of ingredients was significant in potion-making when brewing a healing potion, but this proved to be much trickier than she expected; only ‘simple’ potions (or spells) followed basic Artihmantic laws, and the potion she was attempting to make was anything but. Something always seemed to go wrong every time that she thought the potion was nearing completion, and it was driving her up the wall. She knew she would eventually figure it out, but her patience was starting to wear thin.

She shook her head to dispel all thoughts of more complex formulae and looked down from the ceiling, her eyes landing on her left forearm. Her arm was quite scarred, but she always covered it up with a Glamour Charm or the sleeve of her dress. The Charm had obviously worn off hours ago because the ugly scars were just staring back at her, and she couldn’t seem to look away.

Her arm was quite a mess. White scars circled her wrists where the manacles had bitten tightly into her skin for days, weeks, months, years. But worst of all was the patch of skin where the Dark Mark used to be. The skull with the winding snake coming out of its mouth had mostly faded away to scars the colour of her skin; it was barely discernible to an outside person who didn’t look closely, but it was still recognisable. She knew it was there and it was all that mattered.

Criss-crosses of scars and other cuts – some thick, some thin – covered the faded mark, each one marking a time when she just couldn’t handle looking at it and had attempted to get rid of it. She slowly traced each line, and her mind wandered back to the first time she had seen the man who had once been the centre of her world, as it always did every time her eyes fell on the faded mark.

_She was bored out of her mind._

_She was currently sitting at a lone table in the ballroom of the Manor and was quietly sipping Butterbeer. Andy, Cissy, Sirius, and Reg had run off God knows where, and she hadn’t seen them for the past ten minutes or so. Andy was probably hiding away in some corner reading until all the guests left, because she had seen her grab a book and slide it into the folds of her dress earlier. Cissy was probably fixing her hair or playing with her toad in the kitchen, watching the house-elves work; whatever she was doing, she just hoped that slimy bastard Lucius Malfoy wasn’t anywhere near her or God help her, she would feed him to Father’s bloodhounds. And Sirius and Reg were probably up to some mischief, which she wanted no part in. Still, they were probably having more fun than she currently was, and she inwardly cursed them for leaving her on her own on such a night. She would get back at them at a later date._

_She wished she could just slip away unnoticed as well, but as the eldest, she had the obligation to uphold the family name. Her parents held a Yule ball every year at the Manor and they made sure it was quite the affair, but she hated them. Such balls were mostly used for political purposes with members of the finest families in the British wizarding community gathering in groups and discussing their alliances and other means to preserve blood purity, while the ladies gossiped, traded the latest news with each other, and discussed who would make a fine suitor. Basically, you had to act the part and nod along. And if there was anything that Bellatrix hated, it was pretending._

_It was past ten now, and all she wanted to do was to go back to her room and read the book on the Patronus Charm that she had borrowed from the Hogwarts Library before the holidays, but she knew she had to wait for all the guests to leave._

_She looked around the ballroom._

_Leaving no political pun unshunned, green, silver, and black bunting hung on the walls and the columns, and the elegant, understated decoration revealed the wealth and social status of their family, which dated back to centuries._

_In the far right corner, a gaggle of string, woodwind and keyboard instruments were enchanted to play music befitting the season. A few couples danced to the Christmas tunes along the floor and around an evergreen tree, which stood in the centre of the room and was lit with magical twinkling lights and shimmering spheres. On the opposite side of the room stood Mother and Aunt Walburga who seemed to be in a deep conversation, no doubt complaining about something either her or Sirius had done; and Father, Uncle Orion, Abraxas Malfoy and Arsenius Lestrange were also talking animatedly with other pureblood men, a glass of wine in their hands. Lucius, Rodolphus, Rabastan, and Antonin were sitting at a table not too far away from them._

_As though sensing her gaze, Father suddenly looked up and beckoned to her to come over. She groaned and downed her glass of Butterbeer in one go before making her way over to the group of men who were now all watching her curiously. She inadvertently flinched and cringed inwardly when Father put her arm around her shoulders once she was close enough and proceeded to sing her praises to the other men._

_“You all know Bellatrix, of course. She’s one of the best students Hogwarts has ever had and will no doubt achieve Outstandings in all of her classes,” Father said in a falsely proud voice._

_“I’ve no doubt she will be a great addition to our family and will make a good wife to Rodolphus,” Arsenius Lestrange nodded, appraising her. “I hear they already make a great pair and put mudbloods and blood traitors in their rightful place, isn’t that right, girl?”_

_Bellatrix bristled at being called ‘girl’. She was of age; she wasn’t a child anymore. She gritted her teeth and clenched her jaw when she felt Father’s hand painfully dig into her shoulder, and she straightened up._

_“Yes, Sir,” she nodded dutifully. “Mudbloods don’t belong in Hogwarts. Salazar Slytherin made the school the way it should be, and Dumbledore is too lenient. He has a blatant bias towards Gryffindors and mudbloods; they’ve tainted the school.”_

_“Ah, I like her, Cygnus. I like her a lot!” Arsenius hummed approvingly, and Father patted her on the shoulder._

_It took everything in her not to blurt out that she didn’t need his approval; that she wouldn’t be a broodmare; that she was her own person; that she was ambitious; that she had a purpose in life. But she knew Father would make her pay for it later, so she resigned herself to simply nodding along and tuning them out as they moved on to other topics._

_“Our guest should be arriving any minute now.”_

_She perked up. A guest? Father hadn’t mentioned any of that in the days preceding the ball. Or had he? She had to admit she didn’t really pay much attention to what her parents said these days. She wracked her brains, trying to think of who the ‘guest’ could be, but couldn’t come up with anything. She would have to wait and see, she thought._

_Suddenly, the atmosphere around the room shifted, and she felt a sudden chill creep up her spine. The lights flickered. What was going on? She wasn’t doing uncontrolled magic, was she? She looked around her, but Father and the other men didn’t seem to be fazed at all; if anything, it looked like they had been expecting this. She frowned._

_The source of the sudden change made itself known a few moments later when she felt a cold presence behind her and heard a cold and hissy voice greet her father and the others. She turned around…_

_…and instinctively took a step back, Father’s tight grip on her shoulder stopping her from leaving entirely._

_A tall and pale man with reptilian features was standing before her. He had jet black hair; his face was flat and resembled a skull; the white of his eyes had a bloody look; his nose was as flat as a snake’s, with slits for nostrils; his lips were thin and maintained a neutral line; and his hands were especially long and thin. He was dressed in black robes and held himself upright as he appraised the people before him. His bloodshot eyes fell on her for a fraction of a second, and she unwittingly shivered; it was like he had stared right into her soul. She could sense an aura of power around him and couldn’t help but be intrigued despite his unusual appearance. She had never seen this man before._

_She felt Father move beside her and looked up at him. Her eyes widened slightly when he dipped into a reverential curtsy before the strange man._

_“My Lord,” he greeted._

_My Lord?! She had never seen Father bow before anyone and address them like that before. Who was this man exactly? And why did everyone around her seem to have a deep reverence for him? She saw him faintly smirk out of the corner of her eye and her blood ran cold. Could he hear her thoughts? Father finally turned to her once he stood back up and smiled._

_“Bellatrix, let me introduce you to Lord Voldemort.”_

To put things mildly, she had been very _intrigued_ upon meeting him. He had been a very mysterious man and everyone she had known at the time had seemed to highly respect him. And she could understand why. He had played into wizards’ fears of Muggles: they had all been taught about the dangers of Muggles and their offspring, and his intentions had been to rid the wizarding world of mudbloods and conquer both the wizarding and the muggle worlds to achieve pureblood dominance. They had all been so sure that he would be the one who would revolutionise their world and that magic would be _for_ wizards and wizard kind _alone_ , just like Salazar Slytherin and Gellert Grindelwald had set out to do.

He had just started gathering followers the first time she had met him, and he had heard of her intellect and magical skill through Father – Dippet had told him she was the most skilled spell caster of her age before his retirement – so naturally, he had voiced his wish to recruit her, with the promise that she would be the first female Death Eater and would be on an equal footing with the male Death Eaters. The Dark Lord hadn’t discriminated on the basis of gender; the only things he had valued in a person were loyalty and power.

Not that she gave much thought to what others thought of her, but it was more than likely that the entire wizarding world believed she had thrown herself at his feet the second he had set eyes on her, considering how devoted she had been to his cause. What they didn’t know and what only very few people knew, however, was that, that couldn’t have been further from the truth.

In fact, she had been very reluctant to accept his offer at first, despite her family and everyone around her being fervent supporters of pureblood supremacy. Make no mistakes, she had utterly despised mudbloods then, not so much now considering… and she still couldn’t quite wrap her head around some things… _but_ she had only been seventeen then, far too young and with other life ambitions than torturing people and going on muggle hunts. Of course, Father had been furious at her audacity to not accept right away, but the Dark Lord had pleasantly surprised her then by not forcing her hand.

And that had been what had set him apart from the other men in her life in the end: his willingness to give her the choice.

But of course, in the end that choice had been taken away from her and her hand had still been forced. Not by him per se, but by Father after her blood traitor sister’s ultimate and bitter betrayal. The punishment had been _humiliating_. She had been blamed for failing her duty as the eldest and not setting an example for her sisters, and the duty to restore the family name had rested upon her shoulders. Father had made sure of that: Cissy would’ve taken her place if she hadn’t complied, and she would’ve never sacrificed her baby sister like that.

The Dark Lord… She closed her eyes, and her bottom lip trembled.

He had welcomed her in his ranks with open arms and offered her a place in his Inner Circle. Of course, the other Death Eaters had been miffed at having a _woman_ be higher in ranks than them, but they hadn’t dared say anything. No one dared challenge the Dark Lord lest they face his wrath.

He had taken it upon himself to personally train her and bestow his knowledge of the Dark Arts upon her. There had always been great and terrible darkness within her – one didn’t grow up in a family such as the Blacks and came out unscathed – and she had always been… bold and willing to use any means necessary to achieve desired ends. And the Dark Lord had seen it; he had known it from the start. She was a powerful witch, he had told her, the most powerful among all of his Death Eaters, and she was destined to do great things. He would help and support her all the way so long as she swore allegiance only to him. And she eagerly did.

She had been his from the start; he hadn’t even needed to try hard to get her to bend to his every wish and command. She had been his most trusted, his most loyal servant; she had tortured for him; she had killed for him; she would’ve even _died_ for him. No one else had had such a hold on her.

Even Rodolphus had never quite managed to claim her as his property, though he had tried. She had only married him to fulfil the expectations of her noble family. She hadn’t actively disliked him at first, they had worked well as a team and he had been handsome enough, but they had nothing in common except their contempt for mudbloods, half-bloods, and blood traitors. Still, if she had had the choice, she would’ve never chosen him for herself; she would’ve never chosen a _him_. His place as her husband had come second to the Dark Lord’s place as her Lord and Master.

She had admired the Dark Lord; adored him; venerated him almost. He had been very intense, larger than life itself, his very presence commanding attention in any room he walked into. He had been so invested in knowing more about her and she, about him. He had known about her tense relationship with Father and had been the one to free her from his grasp, giving her the opportunity to truly prove herself and reach her full potential. In every way, he had been her saviour; he had been the first man, the first _human_ even, to truly see and appreciate her for who she really was. The Dark Lord hadn’t seen her as a broodmare like her family and other purebloods had; he had truly valued her intellect and magical abilities. She had felt seen for the first time in her life.

He had also been aware that Father had tortured her and violated her mind too many times, and he had promised he would never do that to his most faithful lieutenant because he trusted her.

And it had meant a lot… it had meant so, so much to be… _respected_.

She remembered the first time he had praised her. She had just committed her first kill under his orders.

_“What a good girl you are. Such a good girl, Bella.”_

He had sounded so proud, and she had felt tears rise to her eyes then. Not tears of sadness, but of awe. It had been the first time someone had truly praised her and appreciated her efforts. Until then, she had only been told she was a let-down for being born a girl, something that was beyond her control. She had felt a fool then, and she felt a fool now, for standing there before him, crying over such a mundane thing as being patted on the back for doing good deeds. But it hadn’t been mundane to her, not really.

And his thumb had brushed away the lone tear that had rolled down her cheek.

He had always been very tactile with her whenever they were alone; his longs fingers skimming her jaw; cupping her chin and pulling her face up; his hand gliding down her neck; his knuckles grazing her collarbone through the fabric of her dress; his hand pressing against the small of her back.

She had never minded it because it had never been excessive, and they had never gone beyond that, though she knew everyone else believed she had whored herself out for him. She had never bothered deny it, that just wasn’t who she was, but she hadn’t lied to Granger when she had confronted her: she had only seen the Dark Lord as a mentor. And she had allowed and welcomed the little touches because she had quite simply been touch-starved her whole life.

She never remembered a time where she had been touched gently or lovingly. Any touches had been rough pushes or hands meeting the skin of her face, but it had been different with him. He had known exactly how and where to touch her, and it had been a salve for her heart. His touch had sparked something within her; something she hadn’t been able to explain but had craved all the same.

She slammed her first hard against the tiled wall until her knuckles turned bloody and painted the wall red, and she growled to herself. Anger bubbled up inside her like a volcano ready to blow.

It had been nothing less than a subtle, a very subtle form of brainwashing, and it made her sick to her stomach. He had _lied_ to her and _used_ her just like every other person in her life. She had spent _fourteen_ years, fourteen _fucking_ years in Azkaban for him, thinking she would be rewarded for her loyalty once he came back, but he had changed after his rebirth.

He hadn’t been the same… and he had looked so much different. She hadn’t been as important to him after he was returned back to life. She would’ve done _anything_ for him after he had freed her from that hellhole, but he had just been another follower to him after that. He had still called her his most faithful and loyal, but she had known he merely said it to assuage her; to keep her in line. No, she hadn’t been the one he always turned to anymore; she had been replaced by none other than Snape.

She had never liked the man. She had been suspicious of him from the moment that he had joined the Death Eaters, and even more so after the Dark Lord returned despite the fact that he himself had trusted him. He had been welcomed back, as oily and confident as ever, with more recognition whereas she had been shunned after the debacle at the Department of Mysteries, for which she had been punished. Her! His most loyal lieutenant!

He had broken the promise he had made her all those years ago because of a bloody bespectacled teenager! He hadn’t hesitated once before using the _Cruciatus_ Curse on her whenever he saw fit; _hurting_ her whenever something went wrong; _violating_ her mind with his favourite method of interrogation because he simply hadn’t trusted her anymore. And worst of all, he had started hurting her _family_ as well, Cissy and Draco.

 _That_ had been her wake-up call.

He had broken yet another promise he had made her when she had first joined his ranks by involving Cissy, and by extension Draco. It had been off-limits, and he had done exactly that: using them as bait just like Father had used Cissy to bend her to his will.

She was crying, she realised in shock, feeling the wetness on her cheeks, and blinked suddenly to try and clear her face. She didn’t know how long she had been doing it, but the water had long since run cold and the bubbles were next to nothing. She wouldn’t cry, she thought furiously. She rubbed at her eyes weakly.

 _So weak_ , a voice similar to his hissed in her mind.

“I’m not weak!” she yelled through her sobbing and frantically scratched at her forearm as hard as she could until it was raw and bleeding. She kept scratching until she could no longer see the faint outline of the Dark Mark; she didn’t want to have any part of him left on her, though she knew he couldn’t control her anymore from beyond the grave.

Breathing heavily, she watched with morbid fascination as the blood streaming down her forearm mixed with the water and swirled around like small pieces of thread before she Accio’d a dark green towel and wrapped it around herself.

She padded out of the bathroom without looking once at her reflection in the mirror, however tempting it was. She knew she must look a state from having barely slept the past couple of days and crying, but that was one of the advantages of living a life of solitude: she didn’t have to care too much about her appearance, not that she ever had.

She quickly dried her hair with a wave of her hand and pulled on her usual black nightdress, though she wasn’t planning on going to bed anytime soon. She knew she wouldn’t get a wink of sleep in what remained of that night. She heaved a sigh and tossed the towel at the chair; it slithered to the ground.

Her eyes landed on the rusty coin resting on the bedside table. She paused and took it in her fingers as she did every day, sitting down on her bed and focusing her vision on it until the message inscribed on it became clear in the room’s flickering candlelight.

_‘I need to see you. Please.’_

The message had been the same for the past few days, and she had yet to send one back. It was also the third message she had gotten in over a month, each left unanswered. She groaned and her mind was invaded by the thought of the brown-haired witch.

When she had first approached the younger witch, she hadn’t expected to find herself in this situation and feel this way. When she had taken the decision to break away from the Dark Lord after careful and lengthy consideration, she had known that she would inevitably involve Granger.

She had heard of her of course after her escape from Azkaban; she had been the brain behind Potter. She had known from the very moment that she had set eyes on the Gryffindor witch that she was mature and smart beyond her years. It had been in the way she had held herself while they had advanced on her group of friends in the Hall of Prophecies. While her friends had looked unsure of themselves and on edge, she had noticed the way her eyes darted about, looking for a way out and considering every possibility. She hadn’t even needed to pry into her mind to know it: she was very transparent.

And she had been even more intrigued when she had seen her in Draco’s mind when teaching him Occlumency. She had seen in his mind how he secretly envied Potter for always being the centre of attention and being discussed seriously as an adversary while he was always considered a mere schoolboy by his parents and everyone else. She had also seen how he despised Granger for her blood and being top of all her classes and outperforming him in every single way, and how Lucius had nagged him all the time about how he couldn’t let a _girl_ beat him. But she had oddly been reminded of her younger self: her head always in a book and constantly striving to be better.

So, she hadn’t thought twice before singling her out from the rest of the prisoners when they had been brought to Malfoy Manor. The Sword of Gryffindor had been an excuse of course, she couldn’t have cared less about it in that moment even though she had known she would be punished for it, but it had given her the opportunity she had waited for: striking an alliance of some sort with someone from the Order. And who better than Granger? Potter had been too sentimental over her mongrel cousin’s death, and she would’ve rather died than ask a Weasel for help, so it had left her with Granger. She had known she was far too altruistic to let such an opportunity go to waste.

And she had proven her right: she had agreed to her terms, although she had been infuriating about it.

Infuriating.

That had been the one term to come to mind when she would think about her. She had been an insufferable know-it-all (still was) and it had driven her nuts at first. They had fought back and forth; first, over her actions because the younger witch held on to her Gryffindor values and believed she held a moral high ground; and second, over her blood status. Too many times she had lashed out at her and had relished in seeing the hurt expression on her face when she called her a ‘mudblood’.

Working her up had quickly become her favourite pastime. The Gryffindor would always rise to the bait, something that hadn’t changed in the past years, and it had brought her immense pleasure; but it had gradually lost its fun as they spent more time with each other in the forest near Shell Cottage. Calling her names and slurs had been more out of habit than personal pleasure, even now.

She had put it down to a sense of familiarity between them as they had shared little pieces of themselves and had invigorating conversations about various academic topics. It had felt nice having someone match her intellect and challenge her in ways that no one else ever had before; it had been stimulating. But she had known that deep down, it wasn’t the only reason.

It had all culminated when she had called her Bella for the first time. She had called her Bella. Normally, she would have yelled at anyone for daring to call her that because it was a nickname she didn’t allow others – only Cissy, Andy, and sometimes the Dark Lord did that – but to hear her say it… A peculiar twist in her abdomen had completely taken her off guard then. Hearing the Muggleborn witch utter her nickname had been unbearably exciting.

She had later berated herself for letting her get close, telling herself it had only been a moment of weakness and vulnerability on her part because her sister had been the only one to be somewhat gentle with her, and even then she had been too preoccupied with her son; but it hadn’t been spot-on. Not really.

She rolled her eyes and huffed out an agitated sigh.

As loathe as she was to admit it, she felt oddly drawn to her. How could she not? They were like ying and yang. Like polar opposites. Night and day. They balanced each other out. They were similar in so many ways, she could recognise that now, but they were also so, so different. Hermione almost always maintained a cool attitude whereas she was the complete opposite: she was hot-headed and flew off the handle quickly. They complemented each other perfectly and contrasted just as well.

She frowned as her thoughts coalesced into the memory of her a few weeks back. Breaking into her mind hadn’t been her proudest moment, but she had seen straight into her mind, straight into her soul. Needless to say, what she had seen there had greatly enraged her, and it still did, but she had seen other things too, and those thoughts pushed into her consciousness, unbidden. Hermione’s feelings and emotions had been too strong, too confusing, too raw for her to be able to suppress and forget. Honestly, it had slightly, no, _immensely_ unnerved her. Her every thought and feelings had literally screamed at her. It was almost like…

No.

She slammed the golden coin back onto the bedside table, the sound reverberating around the walls, and jumped to her feet, pacing and growling to herself.

Lust was only natural. She may not have liked her then, but she couldn’t deny she was beautiful. And she couldn’t deny she was alluring now in her early thirties, with her soft brown eyes; with her nose and cheeks dotted with a sprinkle of freckles; with the faint blush on her cheeks when she was around her; with her glossy, wavy brown hair that fell slightly past her shoulders; with her tantalising lips which seemed to be always pressed into a tight line; with her gorgeous body which she had etched into her memory. There had been something very satisfying about running her hands over her heaving chest and all over her body and seeing, _feeling_ the effect her touch had on her. There had been something comfortable in the way their fingers had knitted together, and there had been beauty in her bright eyes and the sound of her voice, full of strength and passion.

So, yes, she was attractive – _too_ attractive. But that was as far as her emotions ranged; they just couldn’t get past the wall she had built around herself. Sex was sex, no strings attached. She wasn’t about to let herself harbour such feelings for anyone-

 _‘Especially not a mudblood,’_ the voice in her head snapped. _‘She’s filth!’_

She shut her eyes, willing her mind to move away from such base thoughts. Sexual release could be helpful to clear one’s mind, but these thoughts weren’t helping her focus in the least. There were more important matters at hand than this.

Emotions had never been her strong suit anyway, as they hadn’t been her family’s. Even growing up, she had constructed an unbreakable thick wall of pride and never talked about more serious emotions; instead, she always played them out, like a violin.

There were many emotions when it came to Hermione, need being at the top. Need was something she could understand. She could acknowledge that she _needed_ her, and she knew the younger witch did too. But there was something else there, something way deeper, too. Warmth had swept through her body when they had fallen asleep together and woken up together. Then, there were her reactions to the slightest touch, the subtle yet all-too-obvious quickening of her pulse, the warming of her skin where they came into contact.

 _‘You reacted the same way to him,’_ she was reminded.

She growled in frustration and pressed her fists to her temples, trying to squeeze her thoughts together into something that made perfect sense, but they didn’t. She couldn’t properly understand them, and she hated things that she didn’t understand.

The light from the candle was growing dimmer by the second, and she felt her gaze drawn to the window when she heard the crackling of thunder and lightning flashed in the distance, lighting up the night sky and outlining the familiar objects in her room with a deep shadow for a tenth of a second.

She walked over to the window and leaned against the sill on her elbows, looking out over the land. It was a full moon and the surrounding forest was bathed in moonlight, the soft, silvery glow reflecting back off the white of snow, making everything almost as bright as day.

Another flash of lightning lit up the sky, and it started to rain hard – slowly washing away the snow.

 _Great_ , she thought.

The raging storm matched the many emotions that she didn’t know how to handle, and it helped relax her a little. The beating sound of the rain slamming against the Manor’s roof, walls, and windows reminded her of the growl of a wolf.

She rested her head against the frosty pane, the glass feeling cool against her forehead and cancelling out the heat radiating from it. The roaring sound of the wind as it blew past sounded for all the world like a howling wolf calling his pack, and she couldn’t help but smirk. She drew away from the window, suddenly feeling the urge to go out and do something.

She bit her lip, clenching and unclenching her fists as she debated whether it would be wise to venture outside the walls of the Manor at this hour, especially under such weather conditions. She rolled her eyes and shook her head, berating herself. Since when did she debate with herself over such things? Hermione was rubbing off on her. She scoffed; that wouldn’t do.

A few moments later, she found herself standing on the steps leading up to the Manor in nothing but her nightdress. She focused on the black clouds beyond the hills for a moment, breathing in the ozone smell deeply and then letting out a long, slow sigh. She then stepped out onto the gravel path and immediately felt the cold wetness dribbling down her face, her neck, and sinking into the fabric of her nightdress, soaking her.

Her thoughts returned to Hermione again. She wondered what she was doing – probably not wallowing in self-pity, she thought bitterly. Would she be sleeping soundly? Or would she be working until the wee hours of the morning? Her little lion had made a life for herself following the Final Battle. She hadn’t been surprised when she had first read she had started working in the Ministry, pushing for equality or some such, and it had surprised her even less when she had become Minister for Magic. She hadn’t expected any less of her: she had always been ambitious. She was… proud of her.

Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, beneath the dust and grime, she wished she could’ve been part of it all. To feel normal for a while and belong somewhere. All these years away from the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters… the things that had once seemed so important to her, excitement and adventure, were less so. They felt sour and strange; they no longer mattered.

She wondered what she wanted from her future. She had come back for a reason, but she was at an impasse for the first time in a long time. If she could have anything it would be to turn back time.

She shook her head, sending her long dark hair as well as raindrops flying.

She lifted her head and looked up at the full moon, feeling a shiver run down her spine. It was a tingling of excitement. The wind howled again in all directions, pushing heartily against her back like an open hand and stabbing her face like a thousand knives all coming down at once. The lightning above her head flashed again.

Her every sense was working in overdrive: the smell of the forest calling to her, the wind pushing at her exposed skin, the sound of thunder resonating in her ear.

The urge got stronger and stronger, her breaths getting deeper and deeper the more she stood there. She couldn’t ignore it anymore as every feeling built up inside her.

A growl rumbled in her chest and she doubled over and shifted, feeling a bit warmer. Her senses were heightened, each one working in harmony, complementing and enhancing the others. She remained where she was and stared at the moon with sharper eyes for a moment before she ran off, following the damp scent of the nearby forest. The pine scent was fresher, almost overwhelming, and it was a welcome distraction with the rush of the wind whipping past her and stealing what little air she managed to draw into her lungs.

Her figure blended into the night, blurred, as she rushed past the branches and through the intertwined, gnarly trees.

She finally came to a halt in a clearing in the forest, scratching at the ground. Her head shot up.

She howled into the night, as if nothing and nobody could hear her but the moon. It was a fierce sound of primal anguish, impaled with emotion, and it blended with the moaning of the winds.

A chorus of other howls answered hers. One, then another, and another. All different, all long and low, sounding out from different areas of the forest yet converging as they overlapped and echoed through the tree boughs.


	11. Cobwebs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione decides to talk to someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy!

_A person is full of sorrow  
the way a burlap sack is full of stones or sand.  
We say, ‘Hand me the sack,’  
but we get the weight.  
Heavier if left out in the rain.  
To think that the sand or stones are the self is an error.  
To think that grief is the self is an error.  
Self carries grief as a pack mule carries the side bags,  
being careful between the trees to leave extra room.  
The mule is not the load of ropes and nails and axes.  
The self is not the miner nor builder nor driver.  
What would it be to take the bride  
and leave behind the heavy dowry?  
To let the thin-ribbed mule browse the tall grasses,  
its long ears waggling like the tails of two happy dogs?_

Burlap Sack, Jane Hirshfield

Hermione sighed and closed her book before putting it back in her bag. She usually liked to read while she waited for her appointment, but it seemed an impossible endeavour today as she had been staring at the same page for the past few minutes, not registering the words she was reading over and over again. She checked her watch and shifted on her seat, crossing one leg over the other and bouncing it up and down anxiously. It was nearing ten in the morning.

She looked around the waiting room silently. The walls were teal green with coral wicker chairs, and a few potted plants rested on the windowsills. An oval glass table with various magazines on top of it stood in the middle of the room while a child-sized table, next to which was an open toy chest, was on the left corner. The room was quiet, except for the tick of the grandfather clock hanging on the wall.

Thankfully, there weren’t many people since it was the weekend, but the people who were sitting here looked either bored or nervous. She always encountered different people here. Today, the other occupants in the room were a teenage boy who was scrolling through his phone, an elderly woman who was knitting what looked to be a scarf with a frown on her face, and a woman, who didn’t look much older than her, who was stroking what she assumed was her son’s hair and quietly talking to him.

The little boy’s hair was curly and dark as night, a startling contrast to his pale skin, while the woman’s was honey blond. He was wearing a white hoodie with SpongeBob’s face on it paired with black tracksuit bottoms and white shoes with the laces undone. The little boy muttered something to the blonde woman and then looked around, his soft eyes meeting hers. She offered him a small smile. There was hesitation for a few moments, before the little boy timidly smiled back and turned back to his mother.

She watched mother and son interact for a few more moments. The woman’s face lit up and she laughed at something the boy said, tousling his hair and wrapping her arm around his shoulder. Hermione inwardly sighed and looked down at her hands, feeling a weird tug at her heart.

She had always been great with kids, even when she was younger. She had often been in charge of her younger cousins at family gatherings, she had once been the reliable neighbourhood babysitter, and kids were just generally drawn to her. Her relationship with Teddy and Harry and Ginny’s children were further proof of that. She would probably make a good mother herself, but she hadn’t really thought about it until very recently.

Of course, the topic had been brought up many times over the years, whether it was Molly who would always hint at it whenever they went to the Burrow, Ginny who had brought it up the first time she had been pregnant with James and recently when they had lunch, or even Ron himself. She knew he wanted to start a family with her, but she had told him from the start that she wanted to focus on her career. She had substituted career for family for a long time, and she had never regretted it. Not really.

But now, watching mother and son interact had stirred ridiculous thoughts inside of her, and a yearning hit her with unexpected intensity at the little boy’s similarity to a certain someone. What would her kids look like? Brown hair? Dark eyes? Freckled nose and cheeks? She huffed and forced her thoughts away from the sadness that overwhelmed her whenever she thought about motherhood.

She was just about to take a magazine from the stack on the oval table to distract herself (it would be far easier to read than the current book she was trying to read) when the door leading to the various offices opened and a woman whose face was framed by a cloud of dark brown hair, and with wide-set eyes, arched brows, and full, red lips emerged.

Dr. Watkins. Amira Watkins. Her therapist.

The older woman briefly looked around the room and then locked eyes with her.

“Miss Granger.”

Hermione stood up and quietly followed her out of the waiting room after smiling at the little boy again as well as at the other occupants in the room. They stopped at the third door down the hallway.

“After you, Miss Granger,” she gestured after welcoming her with a warm handshake and a sincere smile, which she returned.

Her office was just as she remembered. A large oak desk sat at the front of the room on a beige carpet, the walls were done up in a pale green with a few photographs and paintings lining the wall behind the desk, and a chesterfield couch sat at the back of the room with a bookcase in one corner.

She settled into the seat she always occupied when she came in for her sessions while Dr. Watkins sat behind her desk, pulling her notebook towards her, and crossed her arms on the smooth surface. The therapist regarded her with a kind and warm expression and Hermione’s nerves jittered, knowing what was coming next.

“So, Miss Granger, how have you been?”

Hermione gave a small smile. “I’ve been okay… mostly… I think.”

Dr. Watkins arched a brow curiously. “Oh? Would you care to elaborate on that?”

“I…” Hermione stopped and sighed, tapping her nail on the armrest. She didn’t know what to say or where to start. This felt like her first appointment years ago.

Her first appointment had been a disaster, to say the least. She had wordlessly stared at the woman for the entirety of their session before answering her question as to what had brought her here that day. ‘To get my life back,’ she had answered right before they had hit the fifty-minute mark, and there had been no time for her to comment on that.

“I don’t really know where to start,” she sighed, and her shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, I’m just wasting your time, I should probably go-” she eventually said and stood up.

Dr. Watkins set her notepad aside and slowly stood up as well. “Miss Granger- Hermione, you aren’t wasting my time at all. This is my job, to listen to people and provide help and advice. As I’ve told you on our first appointment, we don’t have to talk about what’s troubling you right away. In fact, this is how first appointments usually go, and that’s okay. Asking for help is the hardest part, and I commend you for that,” she offered her a reassuring smile and gestured to her seat, “Please.”

Hermione sat back down on her seat, crossing her legs and nervously wringing her hands together. She watched how the older woman scribbled something on her notepad and looked back at her, that kind smile still on her face.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had been this nervous. Well, not since their first few sessions a few years ago anyway. Her heart was hammering in her chest, blood was rushing in her ears, and she kept playing with her clammy fingers. She wiped the palms of her hands on her dark jeans and opened her mouth, but nothing came out. All she could do was dumbly stare at her therapist. She felt mute. It was like she had forgotten how to speak, and no words came into her mind.

Truth be told, she knew why she had come back here. The reason had been very clear in her head when she had phoned in last week: she _needed_ to talk about Bellatrix to someone who would understand and not judge her. She just needed someone to hear her out before she did anything irrational. Someone who was completely outside of the situation and who had no prior knowledge of who the dark witch was.

So, Dr. Watkins had been one of the only people to come to mind.

Dr. Watkins wasn’t the first therapist she was seeing. She had decided to see one after coming back from Australia, but it had been laborious. She had first seen a Mind-Healer at St Mungo’s, but she had quickly come to the realisation that wizards weren’t as advanced as Muggles when it came to mental health, psychology, and neuroscience. Wizards tended to rely too much on potions and spells to solve their problems, but they were only temporary reliefs; none of those things would’ve been useful to her. No potion or spell could’ve helped with her loss and grief.

So, she had opted to see a Muggle therapist instead, but even that had proved to be a hassle: partly because she was a linear thinker and thought she could get better by making a list of steps to follow and checking them off as she worked through them, and partly because some of the therapists she had seen hadn’t helped at all.

Her first therapist had been a bit too pushy, bombarding her with countless questions she hadn’t been ready to answer at the time; her second therapist had been a bit too passive and hadn’t really given her other perspectives or challenged her; her third therapist had been awesome and understood her, but had retired shortly after their first few sessions. Changing therapists and recounting how she felt every single time was highly draining and she had been on the verge of losing hope on the concept of counselling before meeting Dr. Watkins.

She had gone to see her without any expectations, telling herself that she wouldn’t give therapy another chance if this failed too, but Dr. Watkins had pleasantly surprised her. She didn’t push her or make her feel uncomfortable. She was helpful because she validated her by challenging and confronting her belief system in an empathetic manner. She had also helped her change her view on and approach to therapy by explaining to her that healing was like an onion with many layers. She had struggled with this concept because she just wanted to cut right down to the core but peeling away the top protective layer was a necessary step even if it felt like all she was doing was dredging up painful memories.

For some reason, she clicked with her and felt _safe_. Talking to her had actually helped and made her feel loads better, and she had stopped seeing her all those months ago for that reason: she felt like she didn’t need therapy anymore, but now it was as though she was back to square one.

She knew exactly what she wanted to talk about, but her Gryffindor bravery seemed to have suddenly vanished into thin air the moment she had crossed the threshold.

“Hermione,” the woman started, and Hermione’s eyes snapped to hers. “What’s on your mind right now?”

She stiffened slightly before relaxing her posture. _She’s not out to get you_ , she told herself and heaved a sigh. _She wants to help you._

“I was just thinking about how similar this is to our first session together. Nothing’s changed.”

Dr. Watkins leaned forward. “Why do you feel this way?” she gently asked.

“I don’t know, I…” she raked a hand through her hair and looked away, out of the window for a moment. The panes were blurred with frost. “When I first came here, I was feeling lost and without a purpose after everything that happened as you know.”

She stopped. Of course, she had left out the fact that she was a witch and lived through a war, but other than that Dr. Watkins knew everything (or almost) with a few adjustments so it made more sense for a Muggle.

She looked back at the other woman who nodded and scribbled something else on her notepad. It had always amazed her how therapists always seemed to write something down even when you told them so little. When she had first started seeing one, she had mused they must be scribbling their to-do-list or grocery list to make herself feel better. But she knew better now.

“I thought I was getting better,” she continued and drummed her fingers on the arms of the seat to assist her thoughts and also to keep herself from shaking. “But it turns out that’s not the truth after all. I think… I think I was just telling myself, _convincing_ myself more like, that everything was fine. I mean, how could things not be fine? I’ve accomplished everything that I’ve ever dreamed of: I graduated top of my class, I have a successful career… and on top of that, I have a very supportive group of friends as well as a loving boyfriend,” she shook her head and huffed. “Oh, I don’t really know, Amira. I… I can still call you by your first name, right?”

“Of course, Hermione. I want you to feel comfortable, it’s what matters most.”

She nodded and bit her lip thoughtfully, getting lost in her thoughts again. She so badly wanted to tell her about Bellatrix, but she had no idea how to even broach the subject. Granted, she had told her she had lost someone she cherished, but she had never really expanded on their relationship… or whatever this thing was. And she couldn’t very well blurt out that someone she had thought was dead for so many years was back in her life now, could she? There was no way the other woman wouldn’t think she had completely lost the plot; she was sure she would be admitted to a mental institute right away.

As though sensing her mental turmoil, Amira cleared her throat. “You’ve mentioned your boyfriend. Would you like to talk about him?”

Her heart started beating wildly again and she furrowed her brows. _Do I want to talk about Ron right now?_ she wondered to herself. “Um…”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Amira reassured, “Take your time.”

Hermione’s eyes darted around the room for a moment as she pondered it. She supposed talking about their relationship could be a starting point as it was part of the problem. Well, Ron himself wasn’t the problem, she was, but lately, she had been thinking a lot about their life together and how her recent actions affected it.

“I suppose we can talk about him,” she eventually nodded. “What would you like to know?”

“This isn’t about what I want, Hermione,” she said calmly, “It’s about what you want to share with me and how that makes you feel. My job is to listen to you, anything you have to say, you can say it.”

She continued when Hermione didn’t say anything. “If this helps, we could start with how your relationship has progressed since our last appointment.”

“Well… I’m afraid there hasn’t been any real development in our relationship,” she admitted. “It’s still pretty much the same. We get up in the morning, get ready for work together, spend the day at work, spend some time together in the evening on the rare occasions I come back home early, and then we go to bed, and the cycle repeats itself.”

Amira hummed and jotted down a quick note again. “You’ve mentioned a ‘cycle’. An interesting choice of word to describe your relationship. What do you mean by that?”

Her breath caught in her throat when she realised she had indeed said that. God, she made it sound so monotonous… which admittedly sometimes it was, but that shouldn’t be surprising after being in a relationship and living together for so long… right?

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she said quickly, trying to keep her voice as light as possible. “It’s just that when you’re with someone for so long, the excitement fades after a while. Ron is a great guy, he makes me… happy?” And she inwardly cursed herself for her questioning tone.

Dr. Watkins didn’t miss the scepticism in her voice. She clicked her pen several times and leaned back. “You don’t sound so sure of yourself, Hermione. What’s troubling you?”

There was a pregnant pause as she considered her question, chewing on her lower lip.

“I… I love Ron,” she started in a shaky voice. “He’s a great guy, even if we have our disagreements from time to time. He’s one of my oldest friends and we grew up together. I’m not sure I could’ve gotten through the last ten years of my life without him… I’d been so angry and so lost and so lonely after losing my parents.” Her bottom lip quivered at the mention of her parents and she closed her eyes for a moment, willing herself not to burst into tears.

She took a deep breath and opened her eyes again when she felt like she could carry on without crumbling. “I’d lost faith in everything and everyone, even myself. But Ron… he restored that faith. He was- he _has been_ there for me every step of the way. He has listened to me when I needed to talk, he has been there for me when I needed someone, even when I didn’t want to talk and just needed to be held. He taught me to have fun again. He taught me to live in the moment and that it was okay to not know what lies ahead because nobody really does. He showed me how to believe in people again. And he’s the one who encouraged me to get help in the first place.”

She looked down at her hands: they were shaking. She felt cold and hot at the same time, nauseous and exposed.

“I can sense a ‘but’ coming,” the other woman offered softly, and Hermione slowly looked up at her.

She nodded and wordlessly stared at her for a few seconds, and Dr. Watkins raised an eyebrow at her, a sign she’d like for her to elaborate without actually saying it out loud so as not to push her. She always gave her the choice.

“But… But I don’t think that’s enough anymore,” she breathed out.

“You don’t think?” Dr. Watkins asked carefully. “You’re not sure?”

Hermione rubbed her hands together, looking anywhere but at the older woman. “No,” she admitted, “I’m not sure of a lot of things lately if I’m honest with you, Amira. I feel like we’ve hit a dead-end street and fallen off the tracks miles back, and we’re too far-gone to get back on. And by we,” she rushed out when the other woman opened her mouth, “I mainly mean me… It’s pretty much a case of ‘it’s not him, it’s me’ here, because he’s trying… God, he’s really trying to make things work and take our relationship to the next step, but I’m not.”

“What do you think that next step would be?”

“Starting a family.” She blinked and was surprised to feel a lone tear roll down her cheek. She quickly brushed it away.

Dr. Watkins nodded, her expression giving nothing away as to what she was thinking. “Has he told you he wants to start a family?”

“Only twice but it was a long time ago,” she shook her head.

“So, he hasn’t brought it up to you since?”

She silently shook her head ‘no’.

“But you’ve been thinking about it.”

She nodded. When she didn’t say anything, the older woman continued; “Tell me how you feel about motherhood.”

Her brows knitted together pensively. “It would be… nice, I suppose,” she hummed, “I know parenthood is a life-altering and soul-changing experience for a lot of people. Draco, for example… as you know, we went to the same school and he was a bully and felt so entitled growing up. Sure, he changed after we all graduated but I can see that starting a family of his own has really kept him grounded. His son means the world to him. And Harry and Ginny… I know it changed Harry’s life especially since he never truly had a family, but I can see how bright Ginny’s eyes shine whenever she talks about any of their children. Even though she complains about them a lot, I know her love for them exceeds anything in the world, even her love for Harry.” She sighed and rubbed her temples. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that, while the idea of motherhood overwhelms me and fills me with dread because it comes with so many responsibilities, I know that it’s something I’d want eventually.”

Dr. Watkins wrote something else on her notepad and gave her a little nod. “When we last talked about parenthood, you were vehemently opposed to it. What changed?”

“I couldn’t really tell you because I don’t even know myself… but lately, whenever Harry and Ginny’s kids are around or I see a parent with their kid, I just feel this weird emptiness and sadness take over me and I can’t ignore it. Like earlier, while I was waiting for our appointment, I watched a mother with her son and they seemed so happy, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t envy them for a second.” She closed her eyes. “I don’t know… maybe this is what’s been missing in my life this entire time?”

“Do you see yourself having that with your boyfriend?”

Her eyes snapped open and she felt her insides turn to ice. “It’s complicated.”

“Why do you think that is?”

She shifted, crossing her other leg over the other one, and tightly gripped the armrests, which didn’t go unnoticed by the other woman. Why was it so complicated? That was a good question. Of course, she knew the answer to that deep down, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to voice it out loud. Keeping it to herself was fine, she could push it to the back of her mind and ignore it but putting it out there would be different. It would make it too real, and she didn’t know if she wanted to face the reality of her life.

A strangled sob tried to work its way up her throat as she considered how to best answer the question. She knew not being entirely forthright wouldn’t help her situation, that went against the principle of counselling after all, but they had already talked about so much today and she didn’t think she had it in her to delve into that. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Amira, because she did, but opening up about her relationship with Ron and parenthood had already been draining enough. And besides, their session was almost over.

She looked at the clock on her desk: there were less than ten minutes left.

“As much as I’d love to start a family of my own, I’m far too busy with work right now to do that. My career has just recently started to thrive, and I feel that having kids now would hold me back and I would have to give up my current position,” she sighed.

Dr. Watkins didn’t know she was Minister for Magic of course, but she had told her she worked in a private law firm and had recently risen in ranks and become Managing Partner.

“Ginny used to be a professional athlete and had to retire when she first got pregnant, and I don’t want that to happen to me,” she continued, her explanation sounding incredibly weak even to her own ears. “I’m thirty-one; I know people are talking, wondering why we still haven’t married and had kids yet because everyone else around us has already settled down. And I know that’s not fair on Ron because he’s more than ready.”

“Have you told him about your worries?”

“No,” she breathed out.

“Do you fear his reaction?” she inquired.

“No,” she repeated. “I know my job has put a strain on our relationship in the past few years and he’d rather I didn’t work as much, but he wouldn’t force something like that on me. Besides, we haven’t had any arguments for the past few weeks, which is nice. I don’t want to disturb that peace.”

She looked down at her hands for a moment, blinking away the tears that burned her eyes, then raised her head again.

Her eyes strayed to the clock again: five minutes left.

“Hermione.” The tone of her voice was so kind and gentle that she thought she would shatter like glass any second now. “There’s no ‘right age’ to have kids, it’s a very personal thing: every woman and her circumstances are different. That doesn’t mean that your life is over or that you’re a failure. In fact, you are quite the opposite, and you still have so much time ahead of you. Everyone moves at their own pace, and that’s more than fine.”

Hermione felt tears well up in her eyes again, and she let out a sniffle.

“That being said,” the other woman continued after handing her a tissue, “you also need to keep in mind that starting a family doesn’t mean that you have to give up everything else in your life. Society often has us think that women can’t ‘have it all’ – both a career and a family – but that’s not true. It may require some sacrifices, yes, but it’s so important to still be yourself. If everyone just committed to only being mothers once they’ve given birth, no mother would ever achieve anything. For instance, your parents wouldn’t have been dentists, and you’ve told me before how much their job meant to them. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with being a housewife. A woman should be able to make her own decisions and we should be able to respect that.” She looked at the clock, then back at her. “What matters most is what makes _you_ happy. Just take it slow, you are still so young.”

She nodded, feeling more tears roll down her cheeks. “Thank you,” she shakily muttered, struggling to find the right words to say to show her appreciation and gratitude. “Deep down, I know that what you’re saying is true but it doesn’t help that everyone around me has either married or had kids. And I’ve been under so much stress recently, which makes all of this ten times worse than it actually is.”

“I understand,” she nodded and then glanced back at the clock. “Hermione, our time is just about up for today. We have less than a minute left, but we’ve already made a lot of progress,” she smiled at her and set her notebook aside. “Do you still keep a journal? If not, I can give you another one.”

“Yes I still have it,” she nodded, “but I think it would be better for me to get a new one as a fresh start, you know.”

Dr. Watkins rummaged through one of the drawers for a few seconds and then took out a leather-bound diary. She stood up just as the clock let out a chime, indicating that the session was over, and Hermione followed suit.

“You already know what I’m going to tell you, but I want you to write what you think and how you feel every day. You don’t even have to write anything at all if you don’t feel like it, but it might make you feel better. Bottling things up isn’t a conductive way to handle things, so if you need to let it out, you might want to do so on paper,” she said and handed her the journal.

Hermione gratefully took it and slipped it in her handbag.

“Same time next week?” the other woman asked hopefully.

“I’d love to,” she breathed out, and she meant it; talking to her truly helped clear her thoughts.

***

The air in the tea shop was thick with the scent of honey, vanilla, peaches, red berry, citrus as well as the scent of scones, jam, chocolate, and pastries. A soft melody was playing over the speakers placed on the walls, coaxing the patrons to relax.

Hermione sat in the back corner of the tea shop, sipping away at her iced hibiscus tea and chewing at the straw as she watched people walk by. Her position gave her the perfect view of the busy streets of London. She took a bite from her pastry and looked out of the window.

It had been snowing on and off for the past few weeks: she was sure they were going to get a white Christmas this year. The sky was barely visible because of the snowfall, and the streets, the trees and the car roofs were all white. Some passers-by rushed to get somewhere warmer while others – kids and teenagers alike – squealed in delight as they gathered the snow in balls and chucked them at each other, ducking and running around.

She chuckled to herself when one of the snowballs hit a stern-looking man in the back and he grumbled to himself as he walked away. She looked away from the window and her eyes swept around the tea shop. It wasn’t too crowded; some people, like her, were sitting by themselves and typing on their laptops or reading as they sipped their drinks, and others were sitting in twos or threes and talking among themselves. All in all, the place was rather peaceful, without any influx of tourists like in other parts of London, and only the soothing music and the chattering could be heard.

The tea shop was right around the corner from the office building where her therapist’s office was located, and she always came here after their sessions. She often felt emotionally spent and like she had just ran a marathon after seeing Dr. Watkins – she had started calling this feeling “therapy hangover” – and she found comfort here. The tea shop was very cosy; the interior was dominated by dark wood with beige accents; the orange glow from the lights above cast a soft haze over the wooden tables; the plush armchairs provided comfy seating; and the khaki sofas at the other end of the tea shop next to the crackling fire were the ideal place to sit at and use the wireless Internet access or read a book from the massive bookshelf.

This was the perfect place for people who just wanted to enjoy their tea or coffee. It wasn’t like crowded places such as Starbucks where you basically get your coffee, drink it, and then leave to make space for others. No, here, you could get a cup or a glass of tea, get another, chat for a while or read a book or two, and stay as long as you wanted. No one bothered you unless you needed something, and this was the reason Hermione chose to come here after her therapy sessions: she could think in peace.

Her mind kept going back to what she had told Dr. Watkins. She couldn’t stop thinking about how she had talked about her relationship with Ron in an almost robotic way as though she weren’t part of it; as though she were looking at their relationship from an outsider’s point of view. She had said he made her happy… but did he really? If he truly made her happy, she would be more enthusiastic about talking about their relationship and it wouldn’t fill her with dread every time it was brought up, would it? Her appointment had made her realise with sudden clarity that she _thought_ she was happy in her relationship because Ron was such a good boyfriend, because he treated her well. Thinking she was happy and actually being happy were two different realities, and she was merely projecting an elaborate cover.

She hadn’t lied when she said the excitement faded away after a little while, but Harry and Ginny were still madly in love, even after so long. It was so evident in the way they looked at each other and in the way their eyes still lit up whenever they talked about each other. The excitement was still there for them; she knew it because Ginny almost never held back when they talked about their respective relationship. Her and Ron’s relationship were nothing like theirs or even like Draco and Astoria’s. They genuinely loved each other. She didn’t doubt Ron loved her too, but with each day that passed, she wondered if she felt the same way. If she ever did in the first place.

Obviously, she loved him as a friend. She certainly had a bit of a crush on him while they were growing up; it had certainly hurt when he had briefly dated Lavender Brown; it had certainly pained her a lot when he had left her and Harry for weeks during their Horcrux hunt, but everything had changed when the dark witch had come into the picture, hadn’t it? The older witch had ignited, and still ignited feelings that she had never experienced before; feelings that couldn’t be more different than the ones she felt for him.

The more she thought about it, the more she realised that they had ultimately ended up together firstly because it had been expected of them, and secondly because it had been an act of desperation on her part after the Final Battle. And that realisation felt like a punch to the gut.

Once again, she wished that she could turn back in time and make amends because as much as she blamed it on the raven-haired witch for hiding for so long, she knew that some of the blame also rested on her for not being truthful with everyone around her when she had the chance to. But she knew she couldn’t go back in time, and that was precisely why she was so angry with herself. She had wanted to try and make the most of whatever had been left of her life after the war, and that was how she now found herself in the shackles of expectations, responsibilities, and self-created cobwebs.

She _hated_ the person she was becoming. She had technically cheated on him and gone behind his back twice now, and every night she _dreaded_ the moment she would have to lie in bed and watch and listen as he went through his bedtime routines and then settled next to her. She _dreaded_ having to be sexually intimate with him, and it was so wrong. It felt so wrong.

She knew this couldn’t go on like this and she knew she couldn’t lie anymore, nor did she want to. This wasn’t who she was; she hadn’t been raised like this. Of course, she knew that there was only one way out of this, which she had been considering a lot lately, and that was simply to tell the truth. But she was not yet at the point where she could find it in her to tell the whole story.

She knew that it would simply not be possible as long as she kept trying to protect herself and her reputation, and, as she thought, the faith that everyone had in her. She was a people-pleaser who cared a lot about other people and what they thought. She always worried about making sure that she did exactly what was expected of her, especially after the Final Battle, and tried not to veer off the comfortable path. That was why this entire situation with Bellatrix was throwing her off so much: it just wasn’t who she was and she couldn’t believe she had let it get this far.

She had been lying to everyone around her for the past twelve years, ever since that night at Shell Cottage, and if there was anything she hated more than disappointing others, it was lying. She hated it, she hated the secrecy and she was beginning to hate that she had to pretend she was fine when she felt like everything was falling apart.

Truth was the best way and was the only thing a man could live with, but she was also aware of her position in all of this. She couldn’t just blurt it out on a whim because this would not only affect her relationships but would also have severe consequences on her career and, most importantly, on Bellatrix. She wanted her to get acknowledged for her efforts, but there was only so much she could do as Minister for Magic… If the Wizengamot still decided to sentence her to life imprisonment again, she would be powerless. Her word would mean next to nothing due to her personal involvement.

No, she had to get people on her side first. She couldn’t secure her pardon on her own.

“What did that straw do to you?”

Her heart jumped in her chest when she was brutally pulled out of her inner monologue. She turned her head to the side and looked up at the waiter, a young man with blond hair, who was looking at her with an amused glint in his green eyes. He was cleaning a table near her with one hand and carrying a tray with the other.

Hermione looked down at the straw in her hand and her eyes widened a fraction. She had chewed the straw so much and twisted it so much that it no longer even resembled a straw anymore.

“Sorry,” she mumbled with embarrassment as she gathered the bits that were scattered on the table in her hand and put them on her empty plate.

“Bad day?” he asked as he swung the cloth over his shoulder.

“You could say that,” she sighed, her eyebrows pulling together and lips curling downwards.

“Ah, we all have our days, don’t we?” he mused. “But hey, my grandma always said, ‘it’s just a bad day, not a bad life’.”

“I’ve never heard that phrase before,” she frowned and then smiled weakly as she stood up, “I suppose your grandmother was right.”

“She always gave great advice,” the young man nodded and beamed at her. “Are you leaving?” he asked when she took her coat from the chair and put it on.

“Yes, I should best be off,” she replied, wrapping her scarf around herself and fixing her beanie on her head. “I have some Christmas shopping to do.”

“Ah yeah,” he hummed, “it’s that time of the year again. Well, thanks for coming by and have fun with your shopping!” he smiled. “Oh no, I’ll take care of that,” he added when she went to clear the table, “don’t worry about it.”

“Okay then… Well, it was lovely as always! Thank you. Have a nice day!”

“You too, ma’am.”

She smiled at the woman behind the counter before pulling the door open, the bells over it jangling as she did so.

The biting cold slapped her warm cheeks with hands of windblown ice and stole the breath from her lungs.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered to herself as she reached up and pulled her scarf tighter around her neck in an attempt to keep out the chill that threatened to slip like cold fingers under her collar. God, she hated winter, she thought, as she buried her hands in her pockets and started to walk along the snow-covered streets.

If she could, she would give her life just so the seasons would skip winter. Autumn was a bit livelier, but winter was just dull, cold, and harsh. Winter held no laughter, no fun, and no happy memories. Not anymore. Winter simply stripped everything away; it stripped them of what spring and summer had worked to build, leaving them bare, sad, and forgotten.

The only merit of winter was the softly falling snow, but even that stopped being fun as most things did as you grew older. The real world didn’t exactly embrace the concept of “snowy days.”

She felt the same way about Christmas. It was once one of the happiest days of her life, but it was no longer. Of course, she enjoyed spending Christmas either at the Burrow or at Andromeda’s place and she loved buying gifts and the entire process that went into it, but it just wasn’t the same anymore since the war. Now, it was just a painful reminder of what they had lost.

Christmas was a grim and wistful day for her now, though she tried not to show it, because all she could think of was her parents. They were the ones who once made this time of year so special for her, but they were no longer here… well, if they were still part of this world, then she didn’t have the faintest idea where they could be, and it broke her heart every year. It broke her heart to think that they could be anywhere, celebrating without her… with no recollection of her.

She huffed, her breath forming white wisps in the wintry air, and shook her head slightly. She wished she could turn off her overactive mind and shutter her thoughts and memories behind the closed doors where she had kept them for so long, but her mind refused to cooperate.

She didn’t feel like Christmas shopping anymore. At least, not today. She had already bought most of the gifts anyway and she just needed to figure out what to get Andromeda, Molly, and Draco. He never celebrated with them, preferring to spend the day with his small family and his parents, but she and him had taken to buying each other a present since they had worked together in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Last year, he gifted her a revised version of _A New Theory of Numerology_ and a finely decorated book nook depicting the Hogwarts Library; she also got him a book, one on Potions entitled _The Encyclopaedia of Potions_ , as well as a set of cuff links engraved with his initials.

She had less than two weeks to get their presents, which was more than enough. She would think of something.

***

She cursed under her breath when she realised where she was.

 _Of course_ , she inwardly scoffed to herself. _Of course, I had to come here._

Lost in thought, she hadn’t realised her steps had taken her all the way to the cul-de-sac she was so familiar with in Hampstead.

She stopped walking and looked up at the three-storey house.

Her parents’ house. Her childhood home.

She debated with herself for a moment but eventually took out her keys from her bag and walked up to the entrance door, shakily unlocking it and letting herself in. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a few seconds, heaving a sigh.

She had finally purchased the house from its previous owners a few years ago and had renovated it as best as she could so that it looked more like it did when her parents still lived here. She knew that she could’ve invested her money into something else, but owning her childhood home, a piece of her parents, brought her some comfort even though she never stayed here.

Just as she went to the tea shop when she wanted some peace and quiet, she came here for the same reason. But unlike the tea shop where she was surrounded by various people, here, no one was around to watch and judge her. Here, she could let her true emotions play out. No one could disturb her here.

It was her safe haven. It was where she found solace when she got things bottled up.

She leaned away from the door and walked through the living room towards the sliding doors leading to the back garden. She slipped through them and sat on the concrete steps, looking around the garden which was once full of so many good memories.

The garden was covered in frost and a light dusting of snow, but the beds on the sides brimmed with life. They were filled with evergreen bushes with red berries, pernettya and heather plants. It was beautiful and perfect for this time of the year. She swallowed the lump in her throat, but it didn’t budge. It clung to her oesophagus like super glue and only grew.

She wished her parents were here with her. Oh, how she wished she hadn’t altered their memories and sent them away all those years ago. Now, amidst all her confusion and guilt, she missed them and needed their guidance more than ever. They would know what to say; they would guide her; they would show her the way as they had done so often; they would be able to comfort her more eloquently than anyone else could; they would be able to soothe her fears and worries.

But they weren’t here, and they never would be again. It was so gruelling.

She tried taking a deep breath, but it didn’t remove the knot of dejection that had built up in her chest during her walk here. And suddenly, everything boiled over inside her – all the guilt, all the confusion, all the despair, all the realisations – and she was no longer able to stop the tears from falling. A strangled sound forced its way out of her throat and heavy sobs wracked her body, rivers of salty tears running down her cheeks. She doubled over and clutched at her stomach.

Would her parents be proud of her if they could see her now? She couldn’t imagine them approving of her actions. What would they think? Would they be ashamed? Would they turn their backs on her?

She shook her head and pulled at her hair in anguish. She was a failure. She was a horrible person. A _monster_. She had failed her parents by not finding them. She had failed Ron by misleading him all this time. She had failed _everyone_ around her by hiding so much from them. She had even failed Bellatrix for not doing everything in her power to redeem her in the eyes of others and giving her the life she so deserved. She was so _ashamed_.

She didn’t know how long she sat there on the cold steps, numb to the biting wind, and struggling with her guilt, fear, and pain. But she was soon startled out of her pity party when she saw something large and silver out of the corner of her eye. Graceful and glowing, the horse stopped in front of her and its mouth opened.

_“Hermione, where are you? Mom is worried and so am I.”_

Oh, crap. She had so much on her mind that she forgot she had plans to have lunch with Ginny and Molly today. It was so unlike her that she was sure they were bound to ask questions.

She slowly willed herself to stand up on wobbly legs and wiped her eyes with the back of her hands, sniffling and coughing. She’d better make sure she looked decent at least before she left.

She cast one last look at her parents’ garden and went back inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My depiction of therapy is entirely based on things that I've seen on TV or in movies because I have no experience with therapy myself, so I have no idea how actual appointments really go or what the therapist/patient dynamic is like. If some things didn't make sense, feel free to point it out.


	12. A Sweet and Sour Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas at the Burrow.

_If you can’t bring yourself to build  
a snowman or even to clench  
a snowball or two to fling  
at the pine tree trunk, at least  
find some reason to take you out_

_of yourself: scrape a patch of grass clear  
for the birds maybe; prod at your shrubs  
so they shake off the weight, straighten up;  
or just stump about leaving prints  
of your boots, your breath steaming out._

_Promise. Don’t let yourself in  
for this moment again: the end  
of the afternoon, drawing the curtains  
on the glare of the garden, a whole  
day of snow nobody’s trodden._

Nobody, Michael Laskey

Hermione put the finishing touches on the cranberry bread pudding. Once she was done, she set the baking dish down next to the plate of gingerbread cookies and wiped her hands on the apron she was wearing.

“Hermione, dear, could you pass me that plate over there?”

She nodded and did as she was told, then looked around the kitchen.

Molly was distributing the food evenly on each plate, which then floated to the table in the centre of the kitchen where Andromeda was sprinkling fine herbs on the roasted chicken and beef tenderloin all the while humming a tune to herself. Ginny was busy slicing onions and pausing every other second to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand. She chuckled. They had been cooking for hours, and she knew the red-haired witch was seething inside.

“Need a hand, Ginny?” she asked, taking pity on her.

“No,” she said stubbornly as she sniffled, “I will not admit defeat. This is war.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Ginny,” Molly huffed as she and Andromeda sniggered. “Hurry up.”

Ginny grumbled under her breath as she furiously continued chopping the onions and added them to the salad bowl.

“Is there anything else I can do, Molly?” she asked.

“You can start taking the plates to the dining room, dear. Fleur and Audrey should be done setting the table. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”

“I’ll help you, Hermione,” Andromeda offered.

They worked together for the next few minutes, carrying and levitating some of the other plates. Hermione was just about to take the salad bowl and a bottle of Burgundy wine to the dining room when she suddenly felt a slight burning sensation on her thigh and yelped. She bumped into the table, making it rattle as she set the bowl and the bottle back on the table.

All three women immediately turned to her in alarm.

“Sorry, I almost lost my balance,” she mumbled and took out her wand again.

“That’s alright, sweetie, I’ll take care of it,” Andromeda stepped in. “Why don’t you get the kids and tell them to come down?”

Hermione nodded and left the kitchen, her hands suddenly very clammy as she climbed the stairs.

She stopped on the second floor and knocked on the door to her left, behind which she could hear the ruckus of children laughing and talking loudly. She softly opened the door and peeked inside.

Teddy and Victoire were perched on George’s old bed, playing a game of Wizard’s Chess which Victoire seemed to be winning; Dominique, Louis, James and Albus were playing Exploding Snap, with the latter two bickering as always; and Molly and Lucy, Percy’s kids, were talking among themselves and braiding each other’s hair.

“Aunty Mione, James is cheating again!” Albus exclaimed as soon as he saw her.

“I did no such thing! You’re just a sore loser is all!” the other boy immediately fired back and lightly whacked him on the head with the cards he was holding in his hand.

Albus gasped and burst into tears, rushing to Hermione and wrapping his arms around her legs; his wails getting louder by the second. She wrapped one arm around his shoulders and gently stroked his hair, the action seeming to soothe him a little.

 _Oh God, these two…_ she thought to herself and suppressed the urge to roll her eyes.

“James, apologise to your brother right now!” she scolded, impatiently tapping her foot against the floor.

James didn’t say anything for a moment and simply glared at Albus.

“Shall I get your mother?” she challenged, knowing Ginny would give him a tongue-lashing. She had little to no patience for his antics and was much more severe than Harry was.

Her mock threat proved effective because the dark-haired boy’s eyes widened a little and he shook his head. “Sorry, Albus,” he grumbled eventually, “I shouldn’t have hit you.”

“Good,” she nodded and let go of Albus who was sniffling quietly. “Dinner’s almost ready, kids. Please go and wash your hands.”

They all squealed and immediately jumped to their feet, rushing out of the room and clambering down the stairs. All except Albus.

“I said wash your hands! And slow down!” she called after them and turned to Albus, crouching down in front of him.

She reached out and took his little face in her hands, her thumbs wiping the dried tear tracks that cascaded down his cheeks. “Stop crying, Al,” she cooed quietly and sweetly, “your brother apologised. He won’t do that again.” She kissed him on the cheek and flashed him her best smile.

He nodded and slowly smiled at her, wiping his eyes with the back of his hands. She patted his cheek and stood up. “Now, go and join your cousins downstairs. I made your favourite dessert,” she said with a knowing smile.

The little boy’s eyes instantly lit up and he had the widest smile on his face. “You’re the best, Aunty Mione!” he squealed in delight and rushed past her, then stopped on the stair landing. “Aren’t you coming?”

“You go ahead, sweetie. I’ll be down in a minute.”

She went into the closest bathroom and locked the door behind her. She breathed deeply before reaching into her pocket and slowly withdrawing the golden coin. Frankly, she didn’t know why she carried it with her at all times when Bellatrix hadn’t sent her anything for almost two months. The dark witch had been intent on ignoring her for some reason, and it seemed she had finally decided to break her unbearable silence… or she hoped the burning sensation she had felt wasn’t her mind playing a trick on her yet again. She had been checking the Galleon way too many times over the past few weeks, hoping and thinking that it had warmed up only to come to the painful realisation that the coin was still void of any message.

She turned the coin in her hand, and her heart plummeted like a boat struggling on the surface of the sea and succumbing to the stormy waves. There, in tiny gold letters: _‘Come now.’_

A shiver ran through her frame, not of horror, not of shame, such as she had felt many times when it came to the dark witch; but a thrill which brought warmth into her veins as she remembered the different ways in which Bellatrix had uttered these two words to her. But it left just as quick as it came and was replaced by a wave of irritation as she fully registered what the message entailed.

How dare she ghost her for _weeks_ , outright refusing to answer her messages to meet with her, and disregard her feelings, likely knowing she would worry only to contact her again when she saw fit? On Christmas Eve, no less. She wouldn’t even be surprised if she had been planning this from the start: that was just the type of person Bellatrix was. She never did anything without reason, no matter how unfathomable her reasoning might be. But what that reason was in this case besides putting her in an uncomfortable and difficult situation, she had no idea.

She sat on the toilet lid and closed her eyes for a second. Her heart was once again hammering against the inside of her ribs from the combination of stress and anger. She was sure that she was bound to have a stroke one day. She buried her hands in her hair and groaned. Why did this have to happen today of all days? The Christmas period was already painful enough as it was; pretending that everything was fine was hard enough as it was; she didn’t need any more complications to add to her long list.

She opened her eyes and stared down at the coin between her fingers. Why was Bellatrix even seeking her out _now_? What made her break her silence? She didn’t think she was much of a ‘Christmas person’; if anything, she was probably closer to being the Grinch, for she was just as misanthropic as him. If she were here right now, she would most likely scowl in distaste at how festive and cheerful everyone was.

No, Christmas was definitely not the reason she was contacting her. But then what? She huffed.

Beneath all of her aggravation, she couldn’t help but be curious. And she could also not deny she missed her because she did. She missed her so much that it physically hurt. It tugged at her heart and caused her the most unbearable agony and an implausibly terrible feeling of helplessness. And she longed to see her – _everyday_ – and there was nothing more than she wanted than to run to her, but she couldn’t. Not right now at least.

No reason would be good enough or convincing enough to explain why she was leaving amidst the Christmas celebrations when they were all having a good time. No matter how tempting it was, she wouldn’t give in. If she did, it would only show the raven-haired witch that she could summon her whenever she wanted and she would come running to her. There was some sense of defiance too there: she had ignored her for the past two months and so, she would too. But only for tonight because, while she was patient and was willing to give others some space, she knew for a fact that Bellatrix would have no qualms about coming to her herself. She wanted to avoid that at all costs.

She intently focused on the rusty coin, and her response replaced the dark witch’s a few seconds later: ‘ _Can’t.’_ She knew it would irritate Bellatrix, but there was nothing she could do about it; her hands were tied. She would just have to understand that, in life, you couldn’t just get everything you wanted in a snap of your fingers.

She didn’t have to wait long for the other witch’s response. It was instant, as though she had been doing nothing but specifically waiting for her answer. She supposed there was some truth to it; she had no idea what she could be doing cooped up in Black Manor all day, all night.

_‘And why not.’_

She snorted and smirked. She could practically hear the cynical and indignant tone of her voice and picture the disgruntled look on her face in her mind.

 _‘You know why.’_ And as an afterthought, _‘Sorry.’_

_‘Whatever, muddy. I don’t care.’_

She rolled her eyes and couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped her lips at the childish response. The slur didn’t bother her that much anymore, not coming from Bellatrix anyway. She could get very creative with her insults and she knew that she didn’t truly mean it when she used it now. It had lost its biting edge a long time ago. If anything, she probably saw it as some sort of a pet name for her, as messed up as it was. It only ever annoyed her when the other woman was being petulant for no reason, just as she was when she first went to Black Manor.

She shook her head with a small smile and slipped the Galleon back into her pocket. There was no point sending another message. Besides, she didn’t really know what she could say, except point out that she did care. The slight prickle on her forearm told her everything that she needed to know: Bellatrix was peeved. She wouldn’t be if she didn’t care.

She was startled out of her ruminations when someone knocked at the door and she jumped to her feet, knocking into the cabinet.

“Ow, shit!” she gritted her teeth and grabbed the spot on her hip that she had hit.

“Hermione, you alright in there, honey?” came the familiar voice. Andromeda.

“Yeah, I’ll be out in a minute, Andy!” she rushed out and flushed the toilet, then washed her hands and checked her reflection in the mirror to make sure nothing gave her away before pushing open the bathroom door.

Andromeda was leaning against the opposite wall, her arms crossed and a pensive look on her face. She moved away from the wall when she came out of the bathroom and slowly approached her.

“Is everything okay?” she gently asked.

“Yes,” she nodded. “Sorry, I just needed a respite, I guess. It’s been…” she pretexted and awkwardly waved her hand around, looking for the right word, “a little bit much.”

“Tell me about it,” Andromeda groaned. “Every year, I think I’ll get used to it, but I don’t.” Then she gently grasped her arms, “But remember, you’re not alone. I know exactly how you feel, Hermione.”

Her brows knitted together in confusion. “Andy, what-”

“Not a day goes by where I don’t miss Ted and Dora,” she clarified with a sad smile, “but it gets especially bad around Christmas, so I get it.”

“Oh, Andy…” she sighed empathetically and slowly wrapped her arms around her. “I wish they could all be with us.”

“It’s okay, darling,” she said in a tear-filled voice, then patted her on the back with gratitude before drawing away and brushing away the few tears that rolled down her cheeks, “We have each other now, we’re family.”

Hermione wiped her own tears and smiled. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough for all the support you’ve given me over the years, Andy. Honestly.”

“Oh, pish posh, you silly girl,” she laughed and shook her head. “Now, how about we go downstairs and join the others before they eat all the good stuff?” she winked and led her towards the stairs.

As they climbed down the stairs arm in arm, as she took her seat next to Ron at the table, and as they bit into their meal, she tried to push the dark witch to the back of her mind for the time being. She would enjoy her night and think about what she would do later.

***

After a copious dinner, they all moved to the lavishly decorated living room. Ron, Harry, Arthur, Bill, and Percy were engaged in deep conversation around the table – last she checked, Percy was talking about an incident in the Portkey Office of the Department of Magical Transportation; Audrey, and Angelina were helping Molly with the dishes in the kitchen, with Celestina Warbeck’s voice booming out of the wireless set.

George, who came in shortly after dinner with Angelina and their kids, Fred and Roxanne, after spending the first half of the night at Angelina’s parents’ house was entertaining Albus, Victoire, Louis, and Lucy with products he brought from his shop; Albus roared with laughter when Lucy’s head disappeared under the Headless Hat. And Teddy was once again playing Wizard’s Chess, this time with James, while the other kids watched them, munching on Christmas biscuits and sweets.

Hermione’s eyes strayed to the Christmas tree standing in one corner of the room again and suppressed another laugh. The angel on top of the tree wasn’t actually an angel, but a garden gnome that had been Stupefied, painted gold, and stuffed into a tutu with small wings glued to its back. She had noticed it as soon as she had stepped foot into the living room. That could only be an idea that George had planted into the kids’ heads, and since Teddy was the only one among the kids to own a wand and know such spells… her eyes turned to him just as he looked up from the chess board. Their eyes locked, and he gave her another cheeky smile before looking back down at the game.

She took another sip of her Firewhiskey, shuddering at the burning sensation it left down her throat, and stared into the crackling fire. She was flanked on either side by Andromeda who was talking to Fleur, and by Ginny who was stroking Lily’s hair and bouncing her up and down on her leg, making the little girl chortle.

Her head was starting to buzz a little from the alcohol, which made her thoughts drift to dangerous territory. She was here, at the Burrow, but felt as though she weren’t really here. She felt far away like a star in the sky in the black night. Try as she might, she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about what would’ve happened if she had left earlier in the night and gone to Black Manor.

“You and Ron are staying here tonight, right?”

She hummed around the rim of her glass. Would they have sat by the fire in the library and enjoyed a drink or two?

“Let’s hope that it will snow some more tonight, so we can have one of our snowball fights.”

She hummed again. How was Christmas even celebrated in the Black family? Did they have any special traditions?

“I’m going to dye my hair blonde.”

“Yes, do that.”

What was Bellatrix even doing right now in the gargantuan Manor all by herself? Her chest constricted with unbearable pain at the thought, and her breath hitched a little. Maybe she should’ve gone. The Burrow was crowded enough as it was…

“I’m going to get a divorce from Harry.”

“That’s great, Ginny.”

“GINNY, WHAT?!” someone shrieked, and Hermione jumped, almost spilling her drink on herself.

Everyone went quiet. All chattering stopped. Even the kids stopped in the middle of their games, startled. Only Celestina Warbeck’s voice and the sound of water running in the kitchen could be heard.

“What brought this on?!”

“Harry, calm down,” Ginny huffed and shifted on the couch, “Hermione was just not listening to me, so I blurted out some nonsense to get her to pay attention.”

She felt all eyes turn to her and felt her cheeks turn beetroot red, sinking into the couch and holding her glass close to her chest.

“I was,” she mumbled lazily.

“No, you weren’t,” Ginny retorted defiantly and everyone huffed humorously, going back to their conversations. “What’s up with you, anyway?”

She opened her mouth- “Now, what’s going on here? What’s all that screaming about?”

Hermione straightened up and turned her head to where the voice had come from. It seemed that Molly was done in the kitchen because she was standing a few feet from them, her hands on her hips and Angelina and Audrey behind her, looking at them with amusement.

“Nothing mo-”

“I sink,” Fleur cut in, “‘ermione ‘az ‘ad too much to drink.”

“That’s not true,” she countered. “I’ve only had one glass.”

“One glass too many, dear,” Molly said with a smile and took her half-empty glass from her hand and out of reach. She heard Andromeda snigger beside her.

“Can’t handle your liquor, Minister? Didn’t peg you for a lightweight,” Ginny quipped. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“Oh, shut up,” she started and glared at her in jest. “If it’s past anyone’s bedtime, it’s Lily’s.”

“Hermione’s right, Ginny. She keeps yawning.”

“Yes, I was just about to put her to bed,” Ginny replied and stood up, wrapping her arms around Lily whose head was starting to loll against her chest.

“Want me to help, dear?”

“Yes, mom, please.”

They disappeared up the stairs, and Ginny’s spot was soon replaced by someone else who threw one arm over her shoulders and pulled her against their side into a hug. She tensed a little but soon relaxed when she realised it was Ron and rested her head against his shoulder. He pressed a kiss to her temple and she sighed.

“Did you have a good night?” he murmured against her hair.

She nodded against him. “Yes, it feels nice being surrounded by family,” then she slightly turned her head and looked up at him. “You?”

“The same,” he hummed, “only, I wish George could be here with us,” he told her in a low voice so that only she could hear him.

“Oh, Ron…” She fully turned to him and cradled his face in her hand. “I know… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, it’s not your fault. I have you,” he mumbled and leaned in to softly kiss her. She gently ran her thumb over his cheek as she returned his kiss for a second.

“Ewww!” someone squealed and they broke away, turning their heads to the side to see Teddy standing close to them with the chess board in his hands.

“Teddy!” Andromeda tutted after shooting them an amused glance, “Don’t be rude.”

“It’s okay, Andy,” Ron laughed and turned to Teddy. “What’s up, little man?”

“Want to play Wizard’s Chess?”

“Teddy,” Andromeda sighed and ran her hand down her face, “you’ve been playing all night. It’s time to go to bed, sweetie.”

“Nana!” he whined. “One last game, please? I know I can beat Uncle Ron this time!”

“Bring it on, little chap!” Ron said and removed his arm from around her shoulders to sit down at the coffee table.

“One more,” Andromeda relented, holding one finger up for emphasis, and turned to Hermione and shook her head. “This boy and his love for Wizard’s Chess, honestly…”

“Tell me about it…” she sighed, “I’ve never understood what the fuss is all about. It’s barbaric.”

Andromeda snorted and they both watched them play. Teddy’s brows were furrowed into a thoughtful frown whereas Ron had a challenging smile on his face. She knew he could easily win – he was a master at Wizard’s Chess – but she had a feeling he would let Teddy win this time around.

And she was right, because Teddy gleefully yelled “Checkmate!” fifteen minutes later, and Ron’s King put his sword on the ground and slouched off the board.

“Well done, mate!” Ron smiled and gave him a thumbs up before standing up and moving to see what the kids were doing.

“See that, Aunty Mione?” he smugly asked and plopped down next to her, his hair turning a shade of brown that matched hers.

“You did well, buddy!” she ruffled his hair and kissed him on the cheek.

“I’m the new champion now, Uncle Ron is getting old!”

“Hey!” Ron exclaimed from where he was sitting next to Albus, showing them how some of the newer joke products worked. They all burst into laughter.

Hermione leaned down to his ear. “You know what? I think you’re right,” she whispered conspirationally and held a finger to her mouth, “but don’t tell anyone. It’s our little secret.” Teddy giggled and looked up at her with a mischievous smile.

“You know, Aunty Mione,” he started, “I think I deserve a reward for winning that game.”

“Oh, yeah?” she cocked an eyebrow at him. “And what could that be?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he shrugged and pretended to think for a moment, tapping his finger on his chin. “You could tell me what you got me as presents for starters.”

“Teddy,” Andromeda, who had been watching them quietly until then, warned. “Don’t push your luck, boy.”

He ignored her. “Did you get me another book?” he asked eagerly.

“Did you finish reading the one I got you?” she smirked, noticing Ginny and Molly come back to the living room out of the corner of her eye.

“Of course! Tell me, Aunty Mione!” he insisted.

“Okay, that’s it,” Andromeda intervened, “That’s enough. It’s time to go to bed.”

Teddy grumbled and petulantly crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re no fun, Nana.”

“What did you s-” BOOM!

There was a loud bang and everyone started, turning to where the sound had come from and watching Albus’s head vanish behind a puff of black smoke. He emerged a few seconds later, sporting a purple black eye. Harry and Ginny rushed to his side while James and the other kids giggled. Even Hermione smiled, remembering how the same thing had happened to her before their Sixth Year.

“It punched me!” he gasped and tears gathered in his eyes.

“It’s okay, Al,” Harry cooed. “We’ll apply some paste to it and it will be gone in no time.”

“Yeah,” George nodded and rummaged through the bag he had brought with him. “There’s some in here.”

Ginny turned to him and shot him her best glare. “How many times have I told you not to bring your blasted toys while the kids are around? Something like this was bound to happen,” she snapped.

“Here, you grumpy hag,” George threw the bottle at her, which Ginny wordlessly caught, though it was evident she had a lot to say.

“James, come here,” she said as her and Harry led Albus out of the living room.

“Why? I haven’t done anything,” he groaned.

“It’s time to sleep.”

“But-”

“No ‘buts’, James,” Harry cut him off after Ginny sent him a murderous glance. “Come.”

James grumbled and stomped his way upstairs. And that was the cue for all of them to retire upstairs to their assigned rooms for the night. Hermione stood up and bid George, Angelina, Percy, and Audrey as well as their kids goodbye and climbed up the stairs with Andromeda and Teddy, hearing Molly ask George and Percy if they were sure they weren’t going to stay the night.

She bid Andromeda and Teddy goodnight on the third floor and continued to ascend until she reached the fifth, where Ron’s old room was. She strained her ears to make sure Ron wasn’t coming up before quickly reaching a hand into her pocket and taking out the golden Galleon: no new message. _Good_ , she thought, _she won’t do anything reckless. Not tonight._ She put the coin in her bag and changed into her nightwear, an old t-shirt and a pair of shorts, and went to the bathroom to do her nighttime routine.

Once that was done, she went back to the room and tucked into bed, pulling the covers up to her waist. She stared at the ceiling as her thoughts crowded her mind. She could go and see Bellatrix early in the morning before anyone woke up and come back on time for breakfast… that was if nothing went wrong with the dark witch; one or two hours could quickly turn to four and more with her.

She heaved a sigh. Once again, she couldn’t help but think about how things could’ve been so much more different had she been honest with the Order from the start. They could’ve spent Christmas together instead of having to sneak out behind everyone’s back, and Bellatrix might’ve even joined them at the Burrow or Andromeda’s place. The thought sat heavy in her chest and it made longing coil through her heart and clench it.

She squeezed her eyes shut as though that would help and turned on her side, curling her body into a fetal position and willing herself to go to sleep. Sleep didn’t come easily to her: it was often full of fear and sound and bloody images. If she managed five hours, that was a good night. But now, it seemed that her body didn’t consent her to rest for a moment even despite the alcohol in her bloodstream.

She tossed and turned in the bed, looking for the right position that would lure her to sleep. Being held usually helped. What was taking Ron so long? She huffed and buried her face in the pillow, imagining a certain raven-haired witch holding her against her; running her fingers through her strands of hair; skimming her scalp. Her eyelids got heavier, her shoulders relaxed, her breath evened out, and she started hearing less and less until–

She had just started dozing off when, semi-conscious, she heard the door creak open, felt the bed dip, and felt an arm snake around her waist. She sighed contentedly and rolled over, snuggling against the warm body lying next to her. It felt so good. She reached a hand out and rested it upon its shoulder. She nuzzled her head onto the arm and shoulder, but… they didn’t feel quite right. Too… muscular and broad. And she stiffened ever so slightly when she felt stubble against her neck and heard a manly voice dangerously close to her ear mutter, “I didn’t mean to wake you up, sorry.”

Her eyes slowly fluttered open, and she could make out the outline of Ron’s face in the dark. It shouldn’t have, but disappointment washed over her like a wave of tsunami, followed by smaller ripples of frustration and guilt at it not being the dark witch holding her.

“Mmh, it’s okay,” she mumbled and rolled over so that her back was facing him. “Was just starting to fall asleep. What took you so long?”

“Just chatted a bit with dad and Bill and had a nightcap,” he replied. And sure enough, she could smell the Firewhiskey in his breath.

Her breath hitched when he kissed the spot under her jawline, then the spot under her ear, and lastly the spot right over her pulse point. She turned her head to the side and opened her mouth to say something when he dipped his head down and captured her lips in a kiss. She made a noise of protest, which sounded an awful lot like a moan and which encouraged him to deepen the kiss, his hand travelling down her stomach. She stopped his hand before it could slip under the waistband of her shorts and reach its goal.

She finally wrenched her lips away from his. “Ron, stop that,” she ground out between tightly clenched teeth when his other hand moved under the hem of her t-shirt instead. Her heart was starting to pound in her chest and the temperature seemed ten degrees warmer than it had only a moment ago, and it wasn’t because she was aroused.

“What’s wrong?” he asked in confusion.

“We’re at your parents’. Do you really want to do this here?”

“Hasn’t stopped you before,” he grumbled and she bristled. “I can cast a Silencing Charm around the room if you’re worried about the kids.”

“No. You’re drunk,” she retorted and moved away from him a little, feeling highly uncomfortable with the turn this conversation was taking. She didn’t want to be pressured into having sex with him, although she knew at the back of her mind that he would never force her. That wasn’t the type of person he was.

“Is that going to be your excuse tonight?”

Her stomach instantly dropped like a free-falling elevator, ice crystallised in her veins, and time seemed to slow. The overwhelming feeling of dread overtook her, and her heart hammered harder. Of course, she had known they would eventually have this conversation, but was this the night? Were they really going to do this at the Burrow in the dead of night?

She sat up in bed. “Wh-What do you mean?”

“Don’t give me that, Mione. You’re smarter than this,” he countered. “You’ve barely let me touch you since the last time. It’s either fatigue or work or not being in the mood or some other crap. At first, I thought you just needed some space for some reason, and I let you, but it’s getting ridiculous now. Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

“There’s nothing wrong,” she breathed out. “You don’t know what you’re say-”

He moved so fast that she had no time to move at all before he grabbed her arms and invaded her personal space… if there was any left between them. “Don’t patronise me! I’m not blind! Have I done something to hurt you?”

“N-no…” she stammered, a lump beginning to form in her throat and making it hard to talk. “Of course not, Ron…”

“Then what is it?” he asked forcefully and brought her closer to him, his hands digging into her arms.

“Ron, please stop, you’re hurting me,” she begged as tears started running down her cheeks, blurring her vision. Fear gripped at her with fingers of steel, threatening to break her and suddenly she found it harder to breathe. She gasped for air, but she was choking with hot tears.

She felt his grip slowly slacken and flinched when he took her face in his hands. His eyes came close to hers, staring deep into them in the darkness.

“I’m sorry, Mione,” he sighed in a mollifying tone. “I just… I just want to help if you’re going through something…”

She slightly relaxed against him once she was sure they weren’t about to fight. “I know,” she nodded and sniffled. “Can we- Can we talk about this later? This is neither the right time nor the right place…” She looked at him hopefully, her eyes silently begging him.

He was silent for a moment, but she soon felt him nod and he gently wrapped his arms around her and pulled her back into a lying position, her head resting against his shoulder and back pressed against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered once more into her hair, “I didn’t mean to scare you. You know I’d never-”

“I know,” she cut him off and rested her hand on his forearm, wordlessly telling him she wasn’t upset with him; she was more upset with herself.

“I love you, Mione,” he whispered and nuzzled against her.

“I love you too, Ron.”

She listened to his breath even out until it finally went steady with sleep. She was beyond exhausted herself, but sleep eluded her, and her regrets of the past and fears for the future didn’t; they tormented her. She stared at the moonlight coming in through the window, her mind copious with crushing thoughts and heart aching with despair and anguish. When she eventually fell into slumber, her dreams were haunted by jumbled images of destruction, shadows she could not make out, and the distant sound of a howl.


	13. The True Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione spends the first hours of Christmas morning somewhere else.

_Everyone suddenly burst out singing;  
And I was filled with such delight  
As prisoned birds must find in freedom,  
Winging wildly across the white  
Orchards and dark-green fields; on – on – and out of sight._

_Everyone’s voice was suddenly lifted;  
And beauty came like the setting sun:  
My heart was shaken with tears; and horror  
Drifted away… O, but Everyone  
Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done._

Everyone Sang, Siegfried Sassoon

It was still dark outside when she woke up. If she had to guess, she had slept for about four hours. She turned her head to the side: Ron had rolled over in his sleep so that his back was to her. That was good, she thought, because it would make it easier for her to slip out of bed and leave without waking him up. She slowly reached for her wand and cast a wordless spell: it was five in the morning. It was way too early but if she wanted to be back on time, then she’d better go now. It was now or never.

She quietly got out of bed and padded over to the window, peeking through the curtains. It had snowed more overnight and it was still snowing, the world outside now blanketed in white and making everything sparkle in the dark. The winter wind made ripples and folds upon the surface like the sea did in quiet weather. She shivered at the thought of stepping out into the dark and the frosty cold.

She turned away from the window and hastily dressed into her most comfortable and warm clothes, in this instance a pair of sweatpants and a dark blue woollen jumper with a silver ‘H’ on the front. She looked through her bag for the rusty coin and turned it over in her hand. _‘Coming now.’_ She didn’t wait for the dark witch’s response. She slipped the coin in her pocket and tiptoed to the door, holding her breath as she turned the handle and slowly pulled it open. The hinges made a creaking noise and she froze on the spot, straining her ears for any movement in the deadly quiet house that would indicate anyone was awake.

Silence.

She inwardly sighed and slowly crept out of the room and down the stairs with the stealth of a cat. Not a soul was stirring, and she descended slowly in the darkness so that she didn’t trip or bump into something. She had just reached the ground floor when the last step creaked warningly beneath her feet, not loud enough but just enough. She heard movement in one of the rooms and stopped dead in her tracks, but relaxed when it was followed by a light snore. She rushed to the living room, tore a piece of parchment, on which she quickly scribbled that she was going on a morning stroll and would be back for breakfast, and left it on the kitchen table.

She pulled on her coat, scarf, beanie and boots and pulled the door open at last. A gust of icy cold air hit her face, freezing the sweat across her brow and down the back of her neck. She buried her hands in her pockets and started walking, the snow crunching under her feet with each step she took and the wind whipping past her ears. It served to wake her up, chasing away her fatigue from her lack of sleep as she climbed up the hill at a rapid pace.

She stopped once she was far enough from the Burrow and shot one last look at the crooked house in the distance before turning on the spot and disappearing with a quiet ‘pop’.

She found herself on the pathway leading to the intimidating gates after a small detour to her house and thanked the Heavens for not landing in the dense forest. The Manor and its surroundings seemed even creepier at this hour of day than it had the last time she was here, and she felt that same strange sense of unease as she slowly walked along the driveway, taking great care not to slip or fall on the treacherously icy gravel.

The ivy-bound wrought-iron gates opened by themselves as soon as she reached them and she puffed a shaky breath as she hurried along the winding path, all the while glancing around herself in case something should be hiding in the bushes or the snow. If she thought the Manor was frightening the first time she set foot onto the property, it was even more now, especially knowing what she knew now about Bellatrix’s childhood. The snow was supposed to be comforting, but the softness and the pure white colour of it felt out of place here and only contributed to the creeping coldness that grew from the dark depths. It sent chills down her spine.

She hurried up the stairs to the doorway and pushed the doors open before they magically opened themselves. She stepped into the entrance hall and stopped, looking around herself. Everything looked just as she remembered, except for the empty spots on either side of the main staircase where some of the family portraits were supposed to be. Her brows knitted together: had the dark witch found a way to remove them? A small smile crept up her lips at the thought.

Now, where was Bellatrix’s room? She assumed she must be asleep considering how quiet the Manor was, and even Pinky wasn’t around this time to greet and guide her through the endless stairs and hallways. She tried to mentally retrace her steps from that morning when she left her room, but it was so long ago that everything was a bit fuzzy in her mind. Oh well, she thought, it shouldn’t be that hard, right?

She was about to climb up the stairs when suddenly, she heard a loud crash coming from somewhere down the stairs to her left. What was that?

“Bella?” she called out softly in the silence, her voice echoing through the entrance hall for several seconds like a chime in the wind.

No answer came, but she soon heard another crash coming from the same spot and she frowned. Was she down there? She slowly inched towards the stairs, while carefully listening out for any more noises, and glanced down when she reached the top step. Her nerves jumped in her stomach: the stairs went down into utter darkness. There was no lighting whatsoever. She gulped and took out her wand, the tip instantly lighting up in a bright white glow. After a moment’s hesitation, she began to carefully ease down the steps, aiming her wand ahead, until she could see the basement floor.

The second that she reached the last step, wall-mounted torches flickered to life, dimly lighting a dungeon-like corridor which reminded her a lot of the dungeons at Hogwarts. It was very cold down here with a sort of damp chill, it was much colder than the rest of the Manor – she must be underground.

The stone corridor seemed to stretch on forever and was lined with doors on either side, spaced evenly. The crashing sound must’ve come from one of them and she assumed that was where the raven-haired witch must be… or so she hoped. She noticed a faint shimmer of light filter through the crack under one of the doors on the left and stepped towards it. With each step she took, her breath and heart rate seemed to race faster and faster.

She placed her ear against the door once she was close enough and could faintly hear the sound of feet shuffling and a voice mutter to themselves on the other side.

“Bella?” she called out again, and all muttering and movement stopped.

She reached out a hand to turn the handle, but the door swung back before she could touch it. Her stomach fluttered madly, wildly, when her eyes finally landed on the imposing figure of the very person she had been aching to see for the past two months. The dark witch closed the door behind her and turned around, freezing on the spot when her dark brown eyes met hers.

“What are you doing here?” Bellatrix asked, looking surprised to see her.

“I came to see you like you wanted,” she smiled nervously at her. “Haven’t you checked the coin? I sent you-”

“No,” the older woman cut her off and crossed her arms, leaning against the door. “Haven’t bothered, seeing as you thought you were too good to get away from your little family for one second,” she narrowed her eyes at her.

Hermione snorted and rolled her eyes. Of course, she should’ve expected this. “Oh no, we’re not doing this again,” she countered and crossed her arms as well. “Besides, you were the one who ignored me for so long, so I think I had every right to-”

But she stopped mid-sentence when the orange glow of the torches flickered across her face and she fully registered how battered the other witch looked. She was sporting a huge bruise that was starting to turn yellowish on her jaw; her bottom lip was cut, with sparks of blood glistening on it; there were three scratches on her cheek, one being dangerously close to her eye; and she was leaning awkwardly against the door as though trying to keep her balance.

“Oh my God, what happened?”

“None of your business,” she hissed, a scowl firmly in place on her face.

“Uhm, I think it very much is my business,” she retorted heatedly. “What were you even doing in there?” she asked, gesturing at the door behind her.

She moved to push it open but was stopped by Bellatrix who swiftly placed her hand on the wall, preventing her access to the room, and pushed at her shoulder with her other hand, making her stumble a few steps back.

“Bella, what the-”

“Move,” she gritted her teeth in frustration and winced faintly with every movement, making it clear her injuries were hurting her despite the brave and strong facade she was putting on. Hermione huffed and reached out to help her, but the raven-haired witch _limped_ away from her.

“What are you doing?” she asked warily.

“Helping you, of course,” she scoffed.

“I don’t need your help,” she responded sharply, slowly moving towards the stairs.

“Bella, you’re limping, for God’s sake,” she bit back tiredly and helped her up the stairs despite her attempts at pushing her hands away. Without thinking, she dragged her across the entrance hall and up the main staircase but stopped midway when the dark witch tugged at her hand.

“What now?”

“You don’t even know where you’re going,” Bellatrix drawled, amused.

Right… she had a point. She had only been here once after all. She flushed and looked back at the older woman who was smirking crookedly at her due to her split lip. “Where’s the drawing room, then?”

Bellatrix took the lead then, although Hermione supported her as they walked through the hallways and turned corners in the semi-darkness until they reached the drawing room. Hermione flicked her wand and the fireplace roared to life.

“I’m not a kid,” the dark witch grumbled as she sat her down on the luxurious couch. “What’s in the bag?” she inquired after a moment when Hermione set down the bag she had brought with her and took off her outerwear. “And what in Salazar’s name are you wearing?” she scrunched up her nose at her attire.

“Oh, never mind that now!” she shook her head and nudged her legs apart before kneeling in front of her.

“Getting right down to business, are we?” she chuckled. “Did you miss me that much that you can’t help yourself, pet?”

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” she shook her head and poked her side. “I’m just going to check your injuries.”

“Why can’t you bloody Gryffindors ever mind your business? It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing to me,” she mumbled distractedly as she took her face in her hands and turned it from side to side, scrutinising the scratch marks, the cut on her lip and the bruise. She pushed her dark mane of hair to the side, looking for more injuries, but the pale skin of her neck was free of any wounds and was just as soft and smooth as she remembered.

She looked up, and her dark eyes locked onto her brown ones. “Do you have any other injuries that I don’t know of?” she asked and raised one eyebrow in a challenging way, knowing damn well she had also hurt her leg.

Bellatrix pursed her lips. “No,” she asserted firmly… and _yelped_ , her face twisting with evident pain, when Hermione purposefully rested her hand on her dress-clad thigh and applied slight pressure. “What would you do that for, you barmy slag!?”

“Honestly,” she sighed with frustration, “why are you behaving like a child? Can’t you just show me where you’re hurting so I can heal you?”

“Why are you doing this?” she asked through narrowed eyes.

“Because, you idiot, I _care_ for you and I don’t like seeing people hurt, especially _you_.”

Bellatrix clenched her jaw and remained quiet for an uncomfortably long time. Had it been too soon? she thought as she watched how the older witch’s brows furrowed together and her jaw moved jerkily as if she were having an interior monologue. But wasn’t it obvious that she cared? She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t. She opened her mouth to apologise-

“Fine,” she relented and looked away, half-hiding behind her hair. “Do whatever you want.”

“Okay,” she whispered softly, her shoulders relaxing at not being rejected. “I’m going to lift up your dress a little now, okay?” Bellatrix groaned her consent.

Hermione bunched the fabric in her hand and lifted it up to her thigh, revealing her alabaster skin and-

She gasped. A blood-coated bandage covered her skin, and she could see fresh blood starting to leak out as well. She raised her head and was about to ask what happened but thought better of it when she noticed the stormy look on Bellatrix’s face. She cleared her throat and shifted between her legs, her hand hovering over the gauze.

“Get on with it,” the raven-haired woman said impatiently.

Hermione took a deep breath and winced alongside Bellatrix when the white fabric clung to the dried and fresh blood as she slowly removed the bandage to have a look at the wound. And for once she was thankful she hadn’t eaten anything because what she saw made her stomach churn with acidic rawness. A deep gash, about one inch wide and six inches long, lined her inner thigh and the skin around it had taken a purplish and greenish colour. It looked fresh and was already in the process of healing but had evidently opened again and the flesh seemed to glow with inflammation. It looked like something had bitten or scratched her and dragged the fang or the claw down her skin.

She shuddered and looked away, putting the bandage back into place so that it would still soak up some of the blood gushing out of the wound. She noticed Bellatrix’s fist clenching and unclenching at her side; she rested her hand on her knee and gently stroked it, feeling goosebumps rising on the dark witch’s skin.

“I need to change the bandage and clean the wound. Where do you keep your first-aid kit?”

Bellatrix looked down at her through her curtain of hair. “Bathroom,” she ground out.

“Where?”

“Down the hallway on your left.”

“Okay, I’m going to-” she heaved a sigh and stood up. “Just… just hold the wound and stay put, okay?”

The only response she got was an unintelligible grumble before she flew out of the room, down the hallway and into the bathroom. She rummaged through the supply closet and grabbed a roll of bandage, cotton wool and a cloth, which she ran under warm water, and looked for a bottle of Essence of Dittany but found none. What she found instead was a bottle of antiseptic. _Weird_ , she thought, _why would Bellatrix own a Muggle product?_ She shook her head. It didn’t matter; antiseptic was great too. She left just as quickly and went back to the drawing room.

She pinched the bridge of her nose when she saw that the raven-haired witch was no longer on the couch but staring out of the window, her high-heeled boots lying haphazardly by the coffee table.

“Can’t you sit still for one minute?”

She looked at her over her shoulder before looking back out of the window. “It’s snowing.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” she responded dryly. “Get back here.”

Bellatrix turned to her and shot her a confused look. “What does that mean?”

“It’s a Muggle expression used when-” she started to explain but cut herself off. “It doesn’t matter. Sit back down or I’ll make you.”

The dark-haired woman huffed and rolled her eyes. “My, my… So feisty pet,” she plopped down on the couch, grimacing slightly at the action, and lifted her dress when Hermione settled back between her legs.

Hermione set the items in her hand on the couch. “Okay,” she sighed and removed the white gauze as slowly as she could to make sure that Bellatrix would feel little to no pain, not missing the way her leg was shaking a little. She set the bloodied bandage aside and very carefully wiped the blood around the wound away with the warm cloth. Once that was done, she uncorked the bottle of antiseptic and poured some of the solution on a cotton ball. She looked up at the raven-haired witch whose eyes hadn’t left her and were scrutinising her.

“This will sting a bit,” she warned softly.

“Just hurry it up,” she snarled.

She rolled her eyes and pressed the cotton to the gash as gently as possible but Bellatrix still jumped out of her skin and shouted a curse, glaring at her. “What are you trying to do – torture me?!”

“Oh, hush. Don’t be such a wimp,” she huffed, but her hand was shaking a little as she continued cleaning the wound and pouring more antiseptic on cotton balls.

Bellatrix snapped her mouth shut at being called a ‘wimp’ and sat there making no noise, but Hermione could feel the immense pain and suffering she was going through because a spike of pain shot through her forearm with each dab of the cotton. It was like the scar on her arm had split open, like an intense burning sensation, and it made it hard for her to focus properly on what she was doing, though she doubted what she was feeling was anything half as bad as what the other woman was currently experiencing.

The dark witch suddenly howled in pain. “Granger,” she ground out and her hand, which had been balled into a fist until then, shot up and grabbed hers, squeezing it so tightly that Hermione wondered if she would be able to move it afterwards.

Feeling tears well up in her eyes, she took a shaky breath and laced their fingers together, her thumb rubbing soft circles on the eldest Black’s smooth skin. “Shh, shh, it’s okay,” she cooed apologetically, “it’s almost over, I promise.”

She dabbed the wound until it was no longer bleeding and took the fresh bandage roll. “Lift your leg up a little.” Bellatrix groaned but complied. She began winding the gauze around her thigh firmly enough to compress the wound, but not so tightly that it cut off blood flow. The older witch moaned in pain, but she ignored it and kept going.

“There, all good,” she said proudly and ripped the end of the bandage.

“Finally,” she grunted. “That was worse than the wound itself.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” she retorted and vanished the bloodied bandage and cotton balls. “You’re lucky there wasn’t any pus, otherwise it would’ve complicated things. Why do you even own antiseptic, a _Muggle_ product, anyway?” she asked as she sat next to her and moved on to healing the scratches on her face.

“Ran out of Essence of Dittany.”

“And you couldn’t get another bottle?” The scratches were bright red and angry, telling her they were still fresh, and the edges had taken a slight purplish hue, slowly going to bluish. _Just what on Earth is she up to?_ she asked herself.

“Can’t go gallivanting around Diagon Alley now, can I?” she sneered bitterly in reply. “You can use your fucking wand, you know? Or have you forgotten you’re a witch?” she added when Hermione reached for the bottle of antiseptic again.

“I might ask you the same question. You could’ve healed these yourself,” she grasped her wand and moved it over the marks. “And you could’ve sent Pinky to get you some,” she pointed out.

“No,” the other woman shook her head and Hermione swatted her on the shoulder so she would sit still. “Can’t have people wondering why and who the Black family’s house-elf is suddenly running errands for.”

“So, you sent her into the Muggle world,” she grinned and ran her finger over the spots where the scratch marks used to be. She felt her hot stare on her face and tried very hard not to blush.

“What are you grinning at?”

“Oh, nothing,” she hummed, still smiling. “I just find it amusing that you’ve resorted to using Muggle products. Your family must be rolling in their graves at the ‘disgraceful’ behaviour of the scion of the Most Noble and Most Ancient House of Black,” she remarked wittily.

“I’m sure they haven’t stopped rolling in their graves ever since I’ve started shagging a Muggleborn,” she snorted sarcastically. “A Muggleborn _witch_ , no less.”

Hermione stilled and felt her heart stop beating in her chest for a second: this was one of the first times since they had known each other and the first time since her return that the dark witch had used the term ‘Muggleborn’ instead of ‘Mudblood.’ She was surprised, but not about to complain. It felt nice to not conflict with the dark witch for once. It felt… _normal_. Well, as normal as things could be considering the situation. Still, her face broke out into a full on beam and she leaned forward.

“You called me ‘Muggleborn’” she breathed out and ran her thumb over her bottom lip, the cut starting to knit itself together. “And stop being so crude,” she whispered before planting a soft kiss on her now healed lips.

When she pulled away, Bellatrix’s dark eyes were full of an emotion she had never seen her wear before, and it made her heart skip a few beats and her face turn red. She awkwardly cleared her throat and the look was gone in an instant and replaced by her trademark blank and bored expression.

“So? It’s a common word used by many in civilised conversations,” she said in a monotonous voice, as if she were repeating something she had rehearsed time and time again.

Hermione shook her head and decided to change the conversation, seeing how uncomfortable Bellatrix was. “Speaking of Pinky, where is she?”

“With her family,” was the curt response.

“Pinky has a family?” she asked, astounded.

“Of course,” she crossed her arms. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know? You worked in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures,” she scoffed.

Her eyebrows shot up her forehead at the casual mention of her work history in the Ministry; unsurprisingly, Bellatrix had done some snooping around. “No, no, of course I knew. It’s just, Kreacher or other house-elves serving the Sacred Twenty-Eight have never mentioned their family. I’m… just surprised is all.”

Bellatrix shrugged and didn’t say another word.

“So…” Hermione started hesitantly, “if Pinky is with her family, does this mean you’ve been…” She stopped and waved her hand around.

“What? On my own?” Hermione nodded. “Yeah, not that I’m not used to it,” she spat defensively.

“Is this why you-” she stopped when Bellatrix’s eyes flashed warningly. “Are you going to tell me what happened and why you vanished on me for two months?” she asked instead, gesturing at her face and bandaged thigh.

“No.”

“Bellatrix…”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” The dark witch shifted on the couch and moved away from her ever so slightly.

“You know you’re going to have to talk to me one day,” she sighed and leaned forward a bit to catch her eye. “You know I’ll listen and help.”

“Again, I don’t need your help. Mind your business, Granger,” she scowled and turned her head away.

“Please tell me you aren’t doing anything reckless that would get you in trouble at least,” she tried.

“What’s ‘reckless’ to you? We don’t have the same vision of things,” she said flippantly.

“Can you be serious for one second? I don’t want you to get hurt. It physically pains me,” she sighed quietly.

Bellatrix slowly turned to her, a look of surprise in her eyes, her eyebrows glazed with confusion, and lips slightly parted. They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds before the dark witch shook her head and heaved an exasperated sigh.

“You’ll get to know soon.” She held her hand up when she sensed Hermione was about to interrupt her. “Now, if you ask any more questions about it, I swear on everything that is holy, I’ll hex you into oblivion,” she hissed and stood up, walking over to the window again.

Hermione stared at her back for a moment before she finally got up and reached her in a few short strides. She only hesitated for a second before slowly wrapping her arms around her waist and resting her chin on her shoulder. She felt the raven-haired witch flinch and tense against her, her arms stiff against her chest.

“You’re so clingy,” Bellatrix groused, but otherwise didn’t move away.

“Oh, nip it,” she smiled and she watched their reflection on the window, their shapes dark against the muted grey of the sky. “Do you like the snow?” she asked after a moment, seeing how engrossed the other woman was in it.

“No, not really,” she answered distractedly and tore her gaze away from the window, removing herself from her embrace. “Come,” she said as she walked- well, _hobbled_ out of the drawing room.

“What?”

“Don’t you want to know why I made you come?” she teased over her shoulder, putting emphasis on ‘come’. “I know you do.”

“Well, yes…”

“Come on, then,” she heard as Bellatrix disappeared around the door.

Hermione Accio’d her bag and rushed after her, following her down the hallways all the while wondering where she was taking her but not asking because she knew by now that she wouldn’t say a word. She grew more curious when they found themselves in the already familiar hallway leading to the library. What could be so important that Bellatrix had to take her there?

The double doors opened with a wave of her hand, and they walked in.

“Bella, wha-”

“Do you ever stop asking questions?” she barked.

“Do you really want to know the answer to that?”

“Given that you answered my question with a question? No, I don’t.”

Hermione flashed a triumphant grin, and Bellatrix huffed, muttering ‘insufferable know-it-all’ under her breath as she disappeared behind one of the many bookshelves on her left, and out of her sight.

She took the opportunity to look around the library, marvelling once again at the sheer beauty of it and its extent. Oh, how she would love to explore all these books, she thought. _Well_ , she told herself, _given that Bellatrix hasn’t returned_ … Curiosity got the best of her. Leaving the other woman to do whatever it was that she was doing, she set her bag down and decided to browse the shelves to see if there were any books that would peak her interest and offer a few insights into the history of the Black family or Pureblood traditions and rituals.

She quickly found out that the books here weren’t sorted alphabetically, but rather by the type of magic contained within them. After scanning several books with her eyes, a title finally jumped out at her. Actually, it was more the size and the style of the book that caught her eye. Wedged between a thick, dusty green book titled _Ancestral Remedies_ and another slightly smaller but just as dusty grey book titled _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ , was a black book with a thin and glossy title: _The Gilded Years._ She had no idea what the book could be about, but she felt oddly drawn to it like the magic contained within it was calling out to her, telling her to read it. Even though she knew that it was only her imagination, she couldn’t resist. She smiled to herself and reached out a hand-

“Don’t touch that,” Bellatrix’s voice stopped her when her hand was only inches away from grasping the spine.

She started and turned to the side to see that she had returned and was leaning against one of the tables in the centre of the room.

“Why?”

“The books here are cursed,” she drawled, “Only a member of the Black family can retrieve them.”

“And you couldn’t warn me beforehand, could you?” she pursed her lips into a thin line, disgruntled.

“If you used your brain, you would’ve figured that out yourself,” she said matter-of-factly, checking her nails. “You’ve been to Grimmauld Place, haven’t you?”

She felt her cheeks heat up a little in embarrassment at the jibe. She now remembered Molly and the others cleaning the library in Grimmauld Place and keeping them, especially her, away from the books. It was no surprise it was the case here as well, considering the Blacks’ family motto and how it was engraved into the gates leading up to the Manor. She should’ve thought about it; she had been a bit too zealous.

“Why haven’t you removed the curses then?”

“I’m the only one here, why would I? You coming here wasn’t part of my plans.”

“Well, you’d better remove them. I want to read those books,” she crossed her arms.

“Is that an order?” Bellatrix arched an eyebrow at her.

“Take it however you like,” she stuck her nose in the air, in response to which Bellatrix’s mouth twitched, but she went on. “Anyway, what would’ve happened if I touched it?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the other witch shrugged. “It might’ve burnt your eyes, poisoned you slowly, drained you of your blood, entrapped you…”

Hermione blanched and gulped audibly. She immediately moved away from the books and moved closer to the dark witch who threw her head back and cackled loudly at the look on her face.

“You’re incorrigible, honestly,” she smacked her arm good naturedly. “What are you hiding?” she suddenly asked, noticing she was holding something behind her back.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she hummed.

She gave her a no-nonsense look. Bellatrix rolled her eyes and deposited a heavy-looking book to the table with a loud thump. The cover was a deep burgundy colour and was void of any words, except for a triangle decorating the otherwise blank front. She raised her eyebrows in puzzlement and looked at the dark witch who seemed to be watching her closely.

“What’s this?”

“Open it,” she muttered, waving her hand in the direction of the mysterious book.

“I thought all the books here were cursed,” she remarked, her hand hovering over the cover.

“Well, this one isn’t, obviously. Open it,” she snapped.

“Alright, alright, no need to bite my head off,” she grumbled before finally opening the book.

The pages were yellowish, an indicator that the book might be old, but the ink looked fresh, like it was done recently. In the centre of the page was a handwritten title: _Ancient Tales of Magic_. She frowned and looked at the raven-haired witch who feigned disinterest, then back at the book. She flipped through a few pages, and her curiosity only grew tenfold. The pages were beautifully written in an elegant cursive and adorned with small intricate drawings and pictures of foreign landscapes, wildlife, and people.

“Did you- Did you write this?” she asked quietly as she skimmed through the contents, awed. The book contained detailed descriptions and information about various wizarding communities and magical creatures and plants, including maps of vital areas, that the more she read, the more she realised she had never or rarely encountered before in any other books dealing with the same topics. This was… _marvellous_. _Brilliant._

She closed the book and turned back to Bellatrix.

“Yes, I did,” she nodded and looked away, pushing a hand through her wild hair and nibbling on her bottom lip. If she didn’t know any better, she would think the older woman was nervous.

“Bellatrix?”

“You didn’t believe me when I told you I’ve been travelling,” she explained and wrapped her arms around herself as though protecting herself from unknown harm. Hermione would say she was shaking a little but it could be a trick of the light. “Now, you know I wasn’t, and it’s all there for you to read.” She looked at her warily out of the corner of her eye.

She cocked her head to the side. “What? I- Oh.” _Oh!_ She smiled brightly when she realised what she was trying to say. Was this her Christmas present to her? Had she been wrong in thinking she wasn’t a Christmas person?

“Bella… You shouldn’t have. I- Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” she dismissed, playing with a curl of her hair. “And don’t be getting any ideas in that Gryffindor mind of yours,” she added, “I merely did that to prove you wrong.”

 _Yeah, sure. You spent God knows how long putting all of this together to make a point_ , she thought to herself and shook her head.

“Well, whatever your motives may be, this is the sweetest thing that someone has ever done for me,” she leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.

“Don’t get all sloppy on me now,” she scowled in distaste and wiped her cheek, but she could tell it was half-hearted. “It’s unbecoming.”

“Oh, stop it,” she scolded lightly. “I love it, thank you so much,” she said one last time before capturing her lips in a slow, gentle kiss that made the other witch gasp into her mouth and she felt tingles settle in her stomach and shoot through her entire body as it always happened whenever they kissed.

Hermione wrapped her arms around her neck, her hands knotting in her hair as their mouths moved against one another with mounting fervour and urgency. With one hand holding the back of her head and the other grabbing her by the waist to pull her close to her, Bellatrix deepened the kiss, her tongue plundering into her mouth and teeth grazing across her bottom lip.

They shuffled around the room and she soon felt her back hit the soft cushions of the couch, her hands clutching the dark witch’s face. Bellatrix pulled back a little to hover over her as they caught their breath before diving back in for more. It all felt so normal; their bodies resting on top of each other, rising and falling in unison. She puffed out a shaky breath when her lips moved down her jaw, behind her ear, along her neck, her kisses becoming more erratic by the second.

She knew where this was going, and there was nothing more she wanted than to allow it; it had been too long and she needed to release all her pent-up feelings, but not right now. Not unless she wanted to go back to the Burrow late and attract unwanted questions.

She softly pushed at Bellatrix’s chest when her hands lifted her jumper and touched her quivering stomach. She looked at her questioningly.

“We can’t, Bella,” she said softly and stroked her cheek.

“What’s wrong?”

Hermione smiled at her first response being making sure she was okay.

“Nothing’s wrong. It’s just…” she sighed, “You’re injured and I have to go back at some point.”

“Of course,” she sneered and leaned back. “Always them.”

“Don’t be like this, Bella,” she sat up and reached out only for the dark witch to turn away. “You have no idea how hard it is.”

“Save your breath, Granger,” she gruffed out. “I don’t want to hear your sob story.”

Her shoulders slumped at the obvious signs that she was shutting down and withdrawing into herself, into that carefully constructed castle of indifference and unreadable thoughts that she had built around herself.

Hermione stared at her side profile for a while before looking down at her hands. She felt guilty; Bellatrix had been in a fairly good mood so far, and now her face was scrunched up into a deep frown. She swallowed the dry lump in her throat, wondering if she should leave now. The older witch was brooding now and being with a brooding Bellatrix was no walk in the park. Yet, like all things about this woman, Hermione accepted the good and the bad, the fair and the rough, the highs and the lows with equanimity. No, leaving would only hinder any emotional growth between them.

 _Wait…_ she thought, suddenly remembering the bag she had brought with her. Perhaps it would defuse the tension between them before it reached a pitch. She stood up.

“Leaving, are you?” Bellatrix asked irritably without even looking at her.

“No,” she shook her head as she picked up the bag from where she had left it. “Actually, I have something for you as well,” she explained.

As she walked back to the couch, she could see that it got her attention from the way she sat up a little bit straighter and from the way she tilted her chin ever so slightly.

“Keep it. I don’t want it and I don’t care,” she declared all the while eyeing the bag suspiciously.

“Oh, I think you’ll change your mind,” she smiled timidly as she sat back down and held the bag close to herself.

In truth, she had debated with herself for the longest time over whether she should even get her something. If Draco Malfoy was a hard person to buy presents for, then Bellatrix Black was even worse. She doubted she had any interest in anything materialistic. She had considered getting her a book but she had discarded the idea entirely: the library here in Black Manor was so rich that she doubted any book she might’ve gotten her wouldn’t already be stored here. Bellatrix probably didn’t even need or expect presents, seeing as she probably already had everything that she wanted at her disposal. But after careful consideration, she had eventually settled on something that she knew would please her. Or at least she hoped it would.

“Well?” Bellatrix snapped impatiently, bringing her out of her thoughts.

“I thought you didn’t care,” she reminded her pointedly, awkwardly shifting on the cushions while fiddling with her fingers. She was nervous.

“I don’t,” she affirmed. “I’m merely curious as to what you thought I could possibly need from you.”

 _Okay…_ She took a deep breath and took a Slytherin green box out of the bag and held it out to her, willing her hands not to shake. The raven-haired witch silently stared at the box for a moment and then took it. She threw her another cautious glance before flipping the lid open, and she watched with bated breath how her eyes went wide with disbelief. She slowly took out the dark wooden stick out of the box and held it firmly in her fingers.

“You… You kept my wand?” she asked with wonder in her voice, not tearing her eyes away from the Walnut wand for one second, as though mesmerised. “After all these years?”

“Yes. No one really asked for it, so I used it until I got my own wand back… and then, I couldn’t bear the thought of getting rid of it… so, I just kept it as a… uhm… reminder after… you know…” she stammered. “I thought… you might want it back now.” She scratched the back of her neck, her face feeling very hot all of a sudden. “The wand you’ve been using must not feel the same even if you’ve most likely won its allegiance by now, I assume,” she added, knowing that the wand chose the witch or wizard and was like an extension of themselves, bound to them by will and talent.

“No, you’re right,” Bellatrix hummed, her fingers absently caressing her wand. “The wand I’ve been using…” she pulled her other wand from her cleavage and stared at it. “It has thunderbird tail feather as its core and is very powerful, but it’s not the same. It doesn’t quite understand me. You know?” she glanced at her out of the corner of her eye, and she nodded wordlessly.

They sat in silence once more, each lost in their own thoughts before the dark witch continued. “You surprise me, Granger.”

“Why?” she asked breathlessly.

She pointed her wand at the fireplace, which sparkled to life. “Anyone would’ve destroyed it given what it did.” The underlying _‘and given what it did to you’_ didn’t escape Hermione’s mind. 

“You’ll find I’m not like most anyone,” she told her tenderly. “And I told you I-”

“I know,” she cut her off. “Did you keep the dagger too?” she asked nonchalantly.

“I’m sorry?”

“The dagger that I used that day,” she rasped. “Do you still have it?”

“No,” she frowned. “Why would I?”

Bellatrix’s forehead crinkled and she looked like she wanted to say something, but Hermione wasn’t sure what. “Never mind,” she eventually said and tilted her head back against the back of the couch and twirled the curved wand between her fingers.

“I have something else for you,” Hermione said after a while.

Bellatrix looked at her inquisitively. She rummaged through the bag for a moment before taking out a beige envelope with “To Bella” scrawled on it. She put the bag down and turned the envelope over in her hands. This one, she was the most anxious about. She knew getting her wand back would please her, but there was no telling how she would react to what was in the envelope.

A knot formed in the pit of her stomach as she handed the envelope to Bellatrix who took it with an amused glint in her eyes. “Wrote a letter for little old me, did you?” she teased as she tore the flap open. “How very-” but the words died on her lips and her smile fell from her face when she pulled out two photographs.

“What’s this?” she asked, nonplussed.

“Photogr-”

“I know what a bloody photograph is, thank you very much! Where did you get this?” she snarled and held up the first picture, turning to her.

Hermione felt her heart tighten painfully in her chest at the look on her face – expressionless and cold. It was the complete opposite of how amiable she had been so far, but she had known deep down that she wouldn’t react well at first. It was only natural, given that she most likely didn’t expect her to own that specific picture. It was the one she had seen at Andromeda’s place; the one of her, Bella, and Narcissa on the Quidditch field. She had duplicated it a few weeks ago and decided to gift it to her, remembering her question about Narcissa and her reaction to her reconciliation with Andromeda.

“I got it from Dromeda’s place,” she explained, noticing the way the dark witch’s eyebrow quirked almost imperceptibly at the nickname. “She keeps it on the mantlepiece, you know… And that’s Teddy, her grandson,” she added softly, gesturing at the other picture in her hand. “I took that picture of them last year before he boarded the Hogwarts Express for the first time,” she smiled. “I thought you might like it.”

Bellatrix stared at the pictures for a moment longer, silent and her eyes devoid of any expression, before slamming them on the table. “Well, I don’t,” she hissed scathingly.

She stood up so quickly that she almost fell over and winced with obvious pain, but promptly regained composure and slapped Hermione’s helping hands away with a look of thunder on her face.

“Bella…” she tried.

“What are you trying to do?” she seethed with a barely restrained angry tone in her voice. “Have you got it into your oh, so noble Gryffindor mind to ‘reconnect’ me with my family?”

She scoffed with an expression of utter disbelief on her face when her question was met with an uneasy silence. “You’re unbelievable,” she shook her head and started pacing back and forth, muttering to herself.

“Would it be so bad?”

Her quiet question had her stop in her tracks. “I’m not one of your pet projects!” she bellowed, the wand in her hand sending sparks flying out of the tip.

“You aren’t a ‘pet project’ to me!” she shot back. “I just want what’s best for you!”

“You don’t know what’s best for me! I’m not a lost little girl who needs guidance! I’m not some dog that needs rescuing! I don’t need to be saved and I sure as hell don’t want to be saved!” she cried. “So, whatever you’ve got cooked up in that little scheming mind of yours, forget it this instant, or so help me God!”

“Oh, stop acting like you’re so tough!” she argued and crossed her arms, ignoring the stab of pain her words sent piercing through her chest. “Do you honestly want me to believe you plan on spending the rest of your life without seeing Narcissa, Draco, and Andromeda again?”

“What makes you think I have any desire to see that blood-traitor trollop again?” she asked dryly. “She betrayed me.”

“Oh, get over it,” she snapped. “Do you honestly still resent her for marrying a Muggleborn? Really? After everything?”

“I couldn’t give a flying rat’s arse about that! It was never about that to me!” she growled.

“Then, what?”

“It was about her just leaving! She left without a word, just a letter! She left _me_ to deal with _her_ mess! While she was all too happy building her own little family, I was _punished_ and had to sacrifice _everything_ with no choice!” Bellatrix shot her a dark glance and turned her back to her, gripping the window ledge tightly.

Silence rose between them as she pondered over what she had just said. What did she mean ‘no choice’? Had her father and Voldemort forced her into joining his ranks? So many questions were flying around her mind like a flock of birds. She looked at Bellatrix. She could feel the tension in her frame, she could feel it coming at her in waves.

“Bella…” she laid her hand on her shoulder, but she jerkily moved away, leaving it to fall to her side. “What happened after she left? What did your family do to you? Did Volde-”

“Don’t say his name,” she groused fiercely, a tremor shaking her body.

“He’s dead, Bella,” she said, feeling jealousy spark hotly through her system. _You can’t compete with the dead_ , _Hermione,_ she reminded herself.

“I don’t care. Don’t utter his name.”

She sighed. _She’s not yet ready to talk about him._ “Okay, I’m sorry…” she relented. “I don’t know what happened, and I’m not going to force you to tell me, but I know she regrets it,” she offered, hoping it would somewhat soften her.

“Pity regret won’t change the past and it sure as hell won’t bring back all the years I’ve lost,” she snarked.

“Neither will resentment,” she retorted.

“Give it up, Granger,” she raked a hand through her dark curls and turned back to the window, “I haven’t seen her since she left, and I’ve no desire to now. I’m perfectly content the way I am.”

“You know we can’t hide forever,” she said sadly. “I can’t keep doing this.”

“What?”

“This… _thing_ between us,” she gestured between them. “Sneaking out will only work for so long. I don’t want to do this forever. It’s not fair to you, and it’s not fair to _him_.”

The dark witch rolled her eyes and her lips curled distastefully. “Break up with him, then. What do you want me to say? Don’t expect me to give you tips on how to fix your _broken_ relationship.”

“I don’t, but you very well know it’s not that easy,” she huffed. “We need to…tell someone. Someone who will-”

“Absolutely not!” the raven-haired witch suddenly shrieked and recoiled as though she had slapped her, and for a moment, real hurt and terror shone in her dark eyes. “I didn’t come back here to be thrown back into that hellhole-”

“No, no, no,” she rushed and took her cold, clammy hands in hers, “That won’t happen- I promise- Listen to me-”

“No! You listen to me, _dearie_ ,” she interjected and wrenched herself away from her. “You tell anyone, and I’m out. You won’t see me again.”

Her words were like a sharp, cold steel blade pressed close to her throat. Hermione felt her body turn to ice and her blood run cold, unable to wrap her mind around the casual ultimatum. “You… You wouldn’t,” she stuttered shakily.

“Try me,” she challenged.

A cold wave of shock washed over her as she realised that the raven-haired witch was dead serious. She held her unwavering gaze, aware that she was shaking inside, and for a long tension-filled moment, they stared at each other, eyes blazing with emotions so raw and violent that she had to force herself not to step into her personal space and plead with her.

She drew in a shuddery breath and nodded resignedly. The effect was instantaneous; Bellatrix’s rigid defensive posture relaxed, her hard eyes softened, her hold on her wand lessened, and her stern mouth quirked up at one corner.

“Good,” she rubbed her forehead tiredly before she marched back to the couch and plopped down, not sparing the two photographs another glance. Hermione followed suit, still a bit bewildered by her reaction and unsure what to do or say that wouldn’t be awkward now.

She needn’t have worried, though, because Bellatrix gave her an opening when she wordlessly flicked her wand somewhere behind her and a glass and a bottle of Firewhiskey came flying into her hands from one of the cabinets. She opened the bottle and poured some into the glass.

“You realise it’s…” she flicked her wand, “a quarter past seven?” _She would have to leave soon._

“So?”

“So, you can’t drink in the morning,” she asserted and tried to hook the glass from her but Bellatrix downed it quickly. “Honestly, Bella…” she admonished and shook her head.

“Is there a universal rule that says you can’t drink in the morning?”

“No, but-”

“Ah, ah,” she tutted, lifting one finger up, “if you say one more word about my drinking habits, I’ll have your arse blasted into the snow before you can blink.”

Hermione snapped her mouth shut and pressed her lips into a disapproving frown. “Have you slept at all?” she asked as a way to keep her talking when she yawned.

“Hmm, no,” she shrugged.

“Maybe you should,” she murmured, slightly concerned. She hadn’t failed to notice the dark rings under her eyes, and she wondered if she was plagued with nightmares just as she was. _She probably is_ , she mused to herself.

“I don’t think I will,” she replied with defiance. “But you know what? Why don’t you make yourself useful and read me something?”

 _What?_ “You want me to… read you… something?” she repeated to make sure she had heard her correctly. It still caught her off guard how she could so easily jump from one conversation to another in the blink of an eye.

“What are you, a parrot now? I’d appreciate more insightful responses from you, pet,” she clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

“You’re a nuisance,” she mumbled under her breath and Accio’d the book she had given her earlier and flicked through it. “What part should I read?”

“You choose.”

She turned the pages until she stopped at one that she thought might be interesting.

“Okay,” she sighed and moved on the couch until she found a comfortable position and faced the other woman. She cleared her throat and began:

_“Egypt has long been romanticised as a land of mystery and profound wisdom and held up as a pinnacle of civilisation both in the Wizarding world and the Muggle world. Indeed, the earliest manifestations of magic can be traced back to Ancient Egypt.”_

She could feel Bellatrix watching her intently, and she found it hard to focus on the words. She had often read Teddy or Albus to sleep, it felt natural to her, but reading to her wasn’t the same. She oddly felt on edge and tried hard not to butcher the words.

_“The ancient Egyptians conceived magic as a living primordial power that infuses and underlies all things. During the times of ancient Egyptian society, the act of practising spells and magic to solve many of the most common problems relating to love, health, and evil spirits was highly common among the royalty and ordinary citizens. However, not every Egyptian was open to the idea of practising magic. As such, many Muggles took to purchasing herbs and magic potions from magicians to protect themselves from invisible ghosts and spirits, which, in turn, led to Egyptian wizards inventing curses and hexes and placing them on tombs for the same reason.”_

She felt Bellatrix’s bare foot nudge against her thigh, and she rose her head from the page, placing her finger on the line she was reading, and glared at her.

“Why did you stop?” she asked, batting her eyelashes.

“You know why,” she scoffed. “You know, there’s nothing I hate more than being interrupted when I’m reading.”

“Just as I thought: bookworm.”

“Are you done?”

The dark witch held up her hands in mock innocence. She picked up where she left:

_“For this reason, Dark Magic is believed to have its roots in Ancient Egypt. One of the many great things to come out of Ancient Egypt is the Book of the Dead, a funerary text written on papyrus which consists of a number of magic spells intended to assist a dead person’s journey through the Duat (Ancient Egyptian for ‘underworld’) and into the afterlife. Preparing for the afterlife was an important part of the Egyptian religion, and Ancient Egyptians believed that the spells contained in the Book of the Dead would help protect them from demons and other evil spirits, and even grant them a place in Heaven. Nowadays, it is believed that these spells are the reason behind the curses on tombs, which Gringotts Curse Breakers try to decode and break to then utilise to protect the vaults of Gringotts itself._

_Nevertheless, the Book of the Dead and the findings of Curse Breakers have also served as an inspiration for recent spells, such as the Cursed Barrier and the Taboo Spell._   
_The Cursed Barrier is used to keep people lacking a certain trait from entering a space by forming a barrier around it. It was used by both the Order of the Phoenix and the Death Eaters during the Second British Wizarding War to prevent anyone with or without a Dark Mark from passing._   
_The Taboo Spell is similar to the Trace spell, but rather than being triggered by underage magic, it is triggered when a certain word is spoken regardless of the age of the speaker. ~~The Dark Lord~~ Lord Voldemort’s name was made Taboo during the Second Wizarding War after seizing control of the Ministry of Magic in 1997 to capture members of the Order of the Phoenix.”_

She had never made the link between these curses, but she now remembered Bill Weasley mentioning how he had picked up the Cursed Barrier from a Dark wizard he had fought during one of his missions as a Curse Breaker. This was fantastic. She was quite amazed at the level of research that Bellatrix had done, and she also felt warmth blossom in her chest at their mutual interest in Egyptology.

The scratched out “The Dark Lord” also didn’t go unnoticed by her, and she cast the former Death Eater a furtive glance before looking back down at the page.

_“But perhaps the biggest contributions that Ancient Egypt has made to the Wizarding World are Astronomy and Alchemy. While modern Alchemy is more concerned with the creation of wealth and the prolongation of life (the Philosopher’s Stone), Ancient Egyptian Alchemy focused on the transmutation of matter, in particular of base metals into gold. Alchemy was, and still is, considered a sacred art: Ancient Egyptian priests were the keepers of the ancient books, and access to these books was restricted and could only be read in the sanctuary of the temples._

_The advancements in the field of Alchemy today would not have been possible without the contributions of various famous Alchemists throughout history, such as Zosimos of Panopolis._

_Zosimos of Panopolis, a native Egyptian, was the one to provide some of the first public descriptions of Alchemy, deeming it to be the study of the composition of waters, movement, growth, embodying and disembodying, drawing the spirits from the bodies and bonding spirits within bodies. He-_ ”

“I’m sorry, would you like me to move so you can-” she snapped when she felt Bellatrix’s feet jab into her side again, but the words caught in her throat at the scene before her.

Bellatrix sat there, sprawled out on the couch with her head tilted against the backrest and eyes closed. Her face was relaxed, her hair cascaded down her shoulders with the lone rogue curl falling over her pale face as it always did, and her lips were slightly parted. She watched the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders and chest as her breath drew in the peaceful rhythm of sleep. She still had a firm grip on her curved wand, as though she didn’t want to ever part with it again.

She smiled softly at the thought that she had fallen asleep to the sound of her voice and closed the book, setting it on the small table, before she stood up and hovered over her. She reached out a hand to shake her shoulder but stopped herself. She didn’t want to disturb her sleep; she looked tired. So, she summoned a pillow and a blanket and slowly eased her into a lying position, carefully laying her head on the pillow which she positioned against the armrest, and covered her body with the blanket.

She gently took her wand from her hand and placed it on the coffee table; the raven-haired witch barely stirred, only turning on her side so she faced her. She crouched down next to her sleeping form and pushed the dark curl off her face, taking a moment to admire her features without her snapping at her to “stop staring like a mindless donkey”. She tenderly caressed her cheek with her fingertips and a warm feeling poured over her when Bellatrix softly exhaled and her eyes fluttered behind closed lids.

Her mind wondered and serious thoughts came into her head. They had only spent three hours at most together but this was by far the best Christmas she’d had in a very, very long time. Of course, Christmas at the Burrow was magical and she loved them all, but being with Bellatrix was different. Was she crazy for feeling this way? _No_ , she told herself, _you can’t control your feelings_. She knew deep down that her intense feelings for her had never truly left. They had been a constant throughout her life, even when she thought she was gone. They made her stronger. And it scared her, the lengths she would go to for her.

She heaved a sigh. She would end this soon; she just needed to convince her and get her to see things from her perspective.

She watched Bellatrix sleep for a moment longer before she leaned in and kissed the corner of her mouth and then the tip of her nose, which scrunched up adorably.

“Merry Christmas, Bella,” she whispered in her ear. “You couldn’t have given me a better present,” she admitted. And she didn’t only mean the book.

She stroked her hair one last time before she got up to her feet. She looked around for a piece of parchment, a quill and ink, and scribbled:

_**Thank you for the book again. I really appreciate it.** _

_**Don’t do anything reckless, please.** _

_**I’ll see you soon?** _

She put the note on the table next to her wand and the two photographs that the dark witch hadn’t thrown away despite her claims that she didn’t want them, and quietly slipped out of the library, holding the book close to her chest with a small smile on her face.

***

“Auntie Mione is back!” someone shouted as soon as she was in close proximity to the Burrow and she had no time to react before a large snowball smacked her on the face. She stumbled a few steps back and spluttered, spitting out snow.

“Edward Remus Lupin! Come back here right now!” she heard Andromeda yell at him from the open kitchen window.

And sure enough, Teddy was standing a few feet to her right and looking at her with a mischievous smile. He was holding another snowball in his left hand. She narrowed her eyes challengingly at him once she recovered from the shock and the coldness.

“Oh, you’re so going to get it, little bugger!” she flicked her hand at the second snowball he immediately threw at her, sending it away, and crouched down to gather snow in her hands, then took off after him.

His delighted shrieks were the only thing that could be heard as she chased him around, throwing snowballs at him, before she tackled him to the ground.

“That’s not fair, Aunty Mione!” Teddy whined.

“Who said I was going to play fair, little man?” she laughed and reached under his coat to tickle him in the stomach.

“Stop! Stop!” he giggled and squirmed underneath her as they rolled around in the snow, kicking up a flurry of snowflakes, before they were soon joined by the others and snowballs went flying in all directions.


	14. Unraveling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione goes back to a familiar place and sees an old friend.

_Everyday is a fresh beginning;  
Listen, my soul, to the glad refrain,   
And, spite of old sorrow and older sinning,  
And puzzles forecasted and possible pain,   
Take heart with the day, and begin again._

New Every Morning, Susan Coolidge

She was running away from something or someone, but she didn’t know what or who. The only thing that she knew was that she needed to get away from whatever it was, and fast. She would stop to catch her breath if it wasn’t for the great fear that she was feeling about what she was running from, but stopping was inconceivable in her mind, not unless she wanted to get caught. As long as she could still run, as long as her legs permitted it and one foot could be placed rapidly in front of the other, then she would keep running. She would run forever if it meant she would get away unscathed.

She had no idea where she really was, only that she was in a forest filled with a strange fog. The branches crackled beneath her feet as she ran and tried to find a way out, but it felt like she was running in a circle and there was no exit. It felt like being adrift on a raft in the middle of the ocean.

_Hermione!_

Her foot caught the root of a tree the second she heard her name being called out from somewhere within the forest. She crashed into the dirt, and the terror which seized her couldn’t be described as she felt the thing following her get closer, the excitement they felt very palpable.

_Hermione!_

She had no idea who was calling her, but the urgency in their voice gave her the energy to scramble back to her feet and take off again. She could tell the thing chasing her was displeased as they hissed and snarled, but she knew better than to look back and lose her speed. The only thing that she could do was to follow that voice and look up to the moon with a vain hope that it would calm the fear that was eating her alive and stop her panicked flight.

Suddenly, she spotted a small light ahead of her through the dark foliage. _Perhaps someone lives out there_ , she mused and ran towards the source of light without another thought. It grew brighter and brighter as her face was being cut by the branches she passed and as her lungs burned and her legs ached with the extra exertion.

She came to a halt when she finally reached the source, and all her fear seemed to vanish at once. She had made it to a clearing in the forest with a lake in the middle of it. The moonlight hit it just so, making it appear as though it was magical, which it probably was. Just as she was about to step towards the lake, a dark shape stepped out of the trees on the other side, and the night air became arctic, the wind now frosty, and ice slowly formed on the top of the lake.

Icy cold began to penetrate her insides and fog started to obscure her vision as she registered that the figure gliding to the edge of the lake was a hooded figure she had the misfortune to encounter a few times in her life. She froze on the spot when she felt a bony hand grasp her shoulder, and a silent scream left her mouth when she turned her head to the side and saw the black hole that was the Dementor’s mouth.

_Hermione!_

The scenery abruptly shifted into a grey room with barred walls. The icy feeling in her chest, veins, and insides hadn’t dissipated. Ministry officials – Wizengamot judges, Aurors, the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol – were all gathered around a window, which seemed to separate them from another room, and blocked her view. Curious as to what they were looking at, she took a few steps forwards and peeked over someone’s shoulder… and what she saw made her heart drop like a stone and her body freeze like a marble statue.

There, in a tiny cell, the cloaked figures of Dementors were hovering over the still form of Bellatrix, who was slumped against the wall and staring at the skeletal creatures with terrified, wide eyes. Hermione watched with horror as the Dementors slowly lowered their hoods and drew in a rattling breath… They were… They were about to give her the Dementor’s Kiss!

“Stop! Stop it!” she screamed just as a blood-curling shriek left the dark witch’s lips.

Everyone turned to her with unblinking eyes, and she realised that there weren’t only Ministry officials in the room but also familiar faces: Harry, Molly, Neville and his grandmother Augusta, Andromeda… and even Narcissa and Draco were here, but they were awkwardly standing on one side of the room, with Narcissa quietly sniffling into a handkerchief and Draco glaring at the floor, his jaw clenched.

They all turned back to the gruesome scene unfolding before their eyes as though she hadn’t said anything at all. It made her sick to her stomach.

_Hermione! Hermione!_

She realised with sudden clarity that the voice she had been hearing was Bellatrix’s all along. The dark witch was reaching out to her in her last moment of sanity, and it tore her apart from the inside out, causing her to let out an agonising scream before she rushed to the door leading into the cell where she was being detained, but someone suddenly wrapped their arms around her and dragged her backwards.

“Let me go! Let me go!” she sobbed and struggled against the strong grip. “Bellatrix! No!”

“Hermione, stop!” she heard a familiar masculine voice say against her. Ron. It was Ron.

“Don’t,” she hissed, glaring at him. “How could you do this to me?” she asked brokenly and attempted to wrench herself away from him, but to no avail. He was too strong.

“She killed Sirius and Dobby, Hermione,” Harry said coldly, not tearing his eyes away from the window.

“She almost killed Ginny.”

“She tortured my parents.”

“She killed Dora.”

“She tortured you,” Ron reminded.

“I don’t care!” she exclaimed, the tears burning her eyes and cheeks as they poured out. “No matter what she’s done, no one deserves this and you all know it! Stop it before it’s too late! Please!”

They all shared a look of indifference and didn’t heed her words. She could literally feel Bellatrix’s soul cracking and splintering and could feel great emptiness and coldness start to spread in her own chest. It drove her wild.

 _Hermione…_ she heard once more, but this time the voice in her mind wasn’t as strong and was slowly fading away into the abyss.

_Bella… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never wanted any of this to happen…_

_I know, dove. You’ve done all you could._

And then nothing. She knew it was over. She just knew. And that thought gave her all the strength that she needed. She kicked Ron, who howled in pain and let her go, and charged through the whole crowd just in time to see the last bit of Bellatrix’s soul being sucked out of her, leaving her nothing but a hollowed-out shell of her former self; a haunted look in her dark eyes.

“BELLA!” she cried before she sank to her knees.

 _Hermione. Hermione. Hermione._ She shook her head.

“Hermione.”

Her eyes snapped open and she gasped for air, her chest thumping and her head spinning. She was tangled up in the covers with them wrapped around her feet, and sweat clung to her like a second skin. Her eyes were blurry with tears and it took her a moment to see that someone was leaning over her and holding her shoulders.

“Bel-” she started to croak but was cut off by another voice.

“Mione, can you hear me?”

The fog slowly lifted from her mind as if someone pulled away a veil, and the world seemed bright again unlike the gloomy, grey room she had been in mere moments ago. Everything was clear again. Her vision slowly focused on a worried, freckled face.

“Ron?”

“It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re safe,” he soothed and helped her sit up on the bed, his hand rubbing circles on her back. It didn’t help to relax her; she was shaking like a leaf and tears were still streaming down her face. “Here,” Ron said and handed her a glass of water, which she gratefully took.

“Thank you,” she muttered and shakily brought the glass to her lips. The cold liquid slid down her throat and into her empty stomach, cooling her heated skin and lowering the temperature of her internal organs. It served to calm her down a little, but the cold feeling also reminded her of the coldness that had spread through her entire being, body and soul in the nightmare, and a new set of tears began to form in her eyes.

“Shh, come here.” And she was pulled into Ron’s warm embrace, her head resting on his shoulder as she sobbed. He gently ran his fingers through her hair, his nails lightly scratching at her scalp, and she softly sighed and closed her eyes… and immediately opened them again when the sight of Bellatrix’s prone form lying against the wall, her eyes unseeing and glazed over, came to the forefront of her mind. She knew it was just a nightmare and it wasn’t real, but that didn’t lessen its effects. The pain was still there.

And suddenly, she remembered how Ron had been the one to hold her back from reaching the dark witch and stopping the Dementors from completely sucking her soul out of her. She tensed up against him and slowly pulled away, refusing to meet his concerned and questioning gaze.

“Mione, are you alright? Talk to me.” She shook her head, her hair falling down to frame her face messily. She was reminded of the time when they had first started dating after the Final Battle and were both plagued with nightmares, her more so than him. She would wake up screaming every night, a pattern that had persisted for a few years until she had decided to seek help, and he would be there to hold her, to talk to her, and to comfort her until she calmed down enough to go back to sleep. But it wouldn’t be enough now. Anything that he could say wouldn’t be enough, not when he had been directly involved in the nightmare.

“I want to be alone,” she whispered and looked up at him. “Please.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, taking her hand in his. She silently nodded and he let out a small breath of resignation. “Okay. How about I make us a nice breakfast? How does that sound?”

“I’d like that. Thank you,” she said quietly and looked down at her hands. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

He patted her hair in a comforting manner one last time before he stood from the bed, heaved out a long sigh and padded out of the room and down the stairs. She slumped against the headboard and drew her knees against her heaving chest. She felt completely drained and the day had barely even started: it was only eight in the morning.

She started when she heard a loud crash coming from downstairs, followed by cursing, and she smiled woefully. Ron was too good for her. Of course, he had his flaws as well, but he was much better than she was. New Year’s came and went, they were well into January now, and they hadn’t even talked about their near-fight on Christmas Eve, nor had he brought it up, probably because he wanted to give her time to be comfortable enough to talk about it. She was a coward.

She sighed, and her thoughts drifted back to the nightmare she had. She could still see it and feel it so vividly that she shuddered and curled more into herself. It was silly because Bellatrix was most likely okay, otherwise she would know and _feel_ it, but she _needed_ to make sure she was alright. Of course, she hadn’t stopped worrying about her since that day four months ago when she showed up at the Ministry, but the nightmare had been enough for her nerves to reach a new high.

She got out of bed, took out the Galleon from the pocket of one of her jackets and went into the bathroom, quietly locking the door behind her so that she wouldn’t be disturbed. She sat at the edge of the tub and turned the coin in her hands, her fingers running around the edge.

 _‘Bella?’_ Her leg bounced up and down as she nervously waited for her response. She wasn’t sure she would be awake; her sleeping habits were all over the place and backwards. She was an insomniac, or at least someone who was in the habit of staying up until dawn and sleeping the day away. She would be a terrible texter if she owned a smartphone, she thought as she waited. She would be one of those people who texted back hours, _days_ later like it was nothing.

The Galleon heated up in her hand after a few moments. _‘What now.’_ She could almost hear the exasperation in her voice and she smiled despite herself, relief flooding through her like a sudden summer rainstorm. 

_‘Were you sleeping?’_

_‘No.’_ And then, _‘Surely you didn’t contact me to ask me that.’_

She decided to cut to the chase. _‘Are you okay?’_

 _‘You saw me two days ago,’_ was the only response she got, but she knew by now that it was her way of indirectly answering her question: she was okay. Of course she was. She saw her on Friday and she was fine, a bit cranky and quick to snap as always, but fine.

They had taken to meeting at least once or twice a week. She would leave the Ministry a bit earlier than usual and would go straight to Black Manor where she would spend an hour or two before going back home. They would read in silence (Bellatrix had finally removed some of the curses placed on the books after much persuasion on her part), would discuss the topics dealt with in the books and some of the more complicated aspects of magic that she had trouble grasping, and some kisses would be thrown in there as well, but nothing beyond that. Not that Bellatrix didn’t try, because she did and came close to breaking her a few times: _‘Things always come in threes’_ she told her, but she held steady.

In short, they would do anything, would talk about anything but what she was doing in that room in the basement of the Manor. She didn’t seem to be doing anything that would put her in harm’s way; she didn’t sport any more injuries since the last time, not that she knew of anyway, but she couldn’t help but be curious.

She hated how secretive the dark witch could be when she could so effortlessly read her like an open book. She always knew what she was thinking or feeling just by looking at her, and it frustrated her to no end.

She shook her head when the coin heated up again. _‘What is it.’_ She wondered if perhaps she could also feel her emotions when she was particularly agitated or on edge.

 _‘Nothing._ ’ She wished she could just hug her right now and feel her warmth. Bellatrix still shied away from her affectionate embraces but she was getting a bit better and only ever tensed for a few agonising seconds before relaxing. _‘Just a bad dream.’_

_‘What about.’_

_‘Never mind.’_ It was too long to tell, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to share this with her given her reactions whenever Dementors were brought up. And it would also be another pretext for her as to why telling someone was a bad idea. She had no desire to fight over this again, the last time being last week. Convincing her proved to be harder than she ever expected.

_‘Suit yourself.’_

_‘I have to go. Get some sleep.’_

_‘Bite me, Granger.’_

She snorted. Always ‘Granger’ and never ‘Hermione’… unless she was in the throes of passion.

_‘I’ll see you on Tuesday.’_

No response. _Typical_.

She stood up, set the Galleon on the ledge around the sink, took off her oversized band t-shirt and underwear, and stepped into the tub to take a quick shower. She turned on the shower head as hot as it would go and stood under it, barely moving for a few minutes. She sighed repeatedly, glad that the terrible cold that had spread in her seemed to be fading, then turned on the tepid water and grabbed the shampoo bottle, pouring some in the palm of her hand. She rubbed her hands together and began to lather it thoroughly into her hair.

She let the sweet and comforting scent of almond and honey envelop her like a warm embrace, inviting her to relax for a brief, but delicious moment. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine the raven-haired witch here with her, pretend that it was her fingers massaging her scalp, and the thought left goosebumps on her skin.

She sucked in a breath and let the lukewarm water rinse her hair, the nightmare and its implications cascading through her mind like the suds and the water down her back. Was it just a manifestation of her worries and her fears or was it a premonitory dream? She wasn’t one to believe in Divination – she still loathed the subject after so many years – but she couldn’t ignore the obvious symbolisms.

She knew that dreaming about being lost in a forest was believed to be a sign of one’s inability to express their inner desires; dreaming about being chased in a forest generally indicated one’s difficulty to communicate with someone of importance in their lives, and dreaming about watching a loved one die (well, Bellatrix didn’t technically die in the nightmare, but the Dementor’s Kiss was worse than death itself) could be interpreted as a fear of losing them.

She could relate to all three of those, especially the last one. She feared losing her again. _Everyday._ Images of the Final Battle still danced within her mind, still haunted her to this very day, but she would be damned if she let something like this happen again. She’d _thought_ she had lost Bellatrix forever that day, but she wouldn’t go through that again. She had been completely helpless and powerless that day and had been unable to protect her, but she was no longer.

She could turn the tide in their favour if she played her cards well… which was why she needed to do this.

_For them._

***

She stood before the tall pillars, each topped with a winged boar on either side of the sturdy gates of Hogwarts where a few Aurors were stationed and pacing back and forth. They were still guarding the imposing castle which rose on the high hill at the end of the long path she could see through the gaps in the rusty bars.

“Minister,” the Aurors greeted and politely inclined their heads to her.

“I’m here to see Headmistress McGonagall,” she explained and waved her wand, the silvery elongated form with webbed feet and a long tail quickly streaking off in the direction of the castle.

They nodded their acknowledgment and a ripple shuddered through the gates a moment later and they slowly creaked open. She spared the Aurors another glance before trudging up the familiar lane she had taken so often for several years. She looked around herself as she walked forwards, hands buried in her pockets. On her right, she could see the Quidditch Field where blurred figures dressed in blue were flying around the large hoops rising above the undoubtedly verdant field. And beyond, the Black Lake stretched like a portal across the grounds, its murky waters undisturbed by the soft breeze of the wind, save for one of the Giant Squid’s arms rising out of the depths of the lake before disappearing again.

She continued walking, smiling at a few gaping students who were walking down to the Quidditch Field and who were now no doubt wondering amongst themselves _‘what the Minister for Magic, the Brain of the Golden Trio is doing here’_. No matter what she had achieved through the years, this was one title that she knew she would never escape; she would always be seen as Harry Potter’s best friend, one third of the Golden Trio, especially by kids and younger students who were still fascinated by their ‘adventures’ and regarded them as heroes. She couldn’t say she liked being admired, being looked up to on that level. It was a constant struggle; she was ordinary, she was just a woman, a normal human being who had no choice but to fight in a war like so many other people. But there was nothing she could do about it.

She shook her head and looked to her left. Hagrid’s hut stood in the distance, smoke billowing from the chimney. She could just make out his giant form; she would pay him a visit later. Her gaze turned to the Forbidden Forest, whose trees were swaying darkly, and she wondered what dark creatures roamed in the shadows when no one was awake. A lone Thestral flew out of the trees, circled in the air for a moment, and then dove back into the forest.

She reached the castle steps at last and flicked her wand, the great oaken front doors swinging open and revealing the vast entrance hall. She stopped for a second and looked around herself. Nothing had changed since the last time she had been here; it looked just the same as when she was still a student. The same moving portraits still hung on the stone walls, the wide marble staircase was still as magnificent and intact as she remembered, and the double doors leading into the Great Hall were ajar, so that she could hear the chatter and laughter of the loitering students.

She didn’t linger too long and walked in the opposite direction until she reached the Grand Staircase leading to the upper floors. As she ascended the steps, her thoughts drifted to a time when she once considered Hogwarts to be her home.

It was the first place where she truly felt accepted and made friends, and the first place where she truly shone. After the war, it had been the closest thing she had to a real home, but it hadn’t been the same; it had been more of a bittersweet feeling. While the castle had been home to some of her fondest memories, the Final Battle completely tainted those. Everywhere she went during her last year, she could see nothing but the bodies of her fellow classmates and members of the Order collapsing one by one, and hear nothing but the sounds of fighting and destruction as the stone walls were blown up and in crumbles.

The Great Hall had been the worst of it: she had been unable to stay in the room for longer than five minutes as her eyes kept straying to the spot where the dark witch had fallen and to the spot where she had clung to her in a desperate, last attempt to be with her. She couldn’t bear it and had taken to having her meals in the room she had been assigned as Head Girl. And even wandered off to the now unused Potions classroom on the nights she patrolled the castle; the place where they met for the last time and shared their last kiss while chaos was wreaking havoc around them.

She could handle being in the castle without breaking down now, but it didn’t mean it hurt any less.

The corridors were mostly deserted, probably due to it being a Sunday, and she reached the Gargoyle Corridor without being stopped by any curious students. She stopped in front of the griffin statue.

“Epoximise,” she said, and the gargoyle leapt aside as the wall behind it split in two, revealing the spiral staircase, onto which she stepped, that moved upwards in circles until it stopped before the door with the brass knocker in the shape of another griffin.

Hermione rapped on the door.

“Come in,” she heard and opened the door, walking into the circular room.

“Good day, Hermione,” McGonagall greeted from behind her desk and looked up at her through her spectacles.

“Good afternoon, Professor,” she smiled.

“You can call me Minerva, dear,” the older witch admonished with hidden amusement in her voice. “You are not my student anymore.”

Hermione felt her cheeks heat up, and she inclined her head. “Sorry, Minerva,” she mumbled embarrassingly. “Some habits are hard to break.”

McGonagall nodded. “Sit down, please” she gestured to the plush, velvet chair across her desk. “How have you been, Hermione?” she asked once she took her seat.

“I’ve been quite well, Prof- Minerva,” she lied easily, though she knew her former Head of House knew she wasn’t telling the whole truth. “Thank you for asking. How have things been here? I hope not too hectic.”

“The students have been behaving remarkably well, although there are, of course, some troublemakers, but nothing that can’t be handled,” she smiled and looked at her pointedly, “They aren’t giving us as much trouble as you, Mister Potter, and Mister Weasley once did.”

Hermione flushed and shifted on the seat. “Not even Teddy?” she asked sheepishly.

McGonagall adjusted her glasses and crossed her hands on the desk. “While Mister Lupin has certainly taken his mischievousness after his parents and Mister Potter and does sneak out after curfew, he spends far too much time in the Library, a trait he has picked up from you,” a small smile crept up Hermione’s lips, “to cause us any real trouble.”

She chuckled. It was true that Teddy didn’t get up to half as much mischief as all of them thought he would before his First Year, which surprised them all because he sure knew how to be a little bugger when he wanted to.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” she said and then nervously wrung her hands together, looking about the room. The circular office looked the same; picture frames lined the walls, its occupants either absent or probably feigning to sleep so they could eavesdrop; the large, wall-mounted bookcase was still brimming with books on every subject, but mostly on Transfiguration; a numerous amount of trophies were secured in a glass cabinet, and papers littered many of the surfaces in the room.

Hermione cleared her throat and looked back at her former Professor who was observing her quietly and with sympathetic consideration.

“You probably wonder why I wanted to speak with you today,” she started, her heart rate beginning to increase with a combination of nervousness and anxiety.

“I admit to have been a little bit concerned by your urgent Owl,” McGonagall nodded. “I imagine it must be in relation to the presence of Aurors on our grounds.”

She slowly shook her head. “I’m afraid the Aurors will be present on the premises for a little while longer,” she explained ruefully. “As you know, the Auror Office has identified the bite to be of werewolf origin but the volunteers from the werewolf community have pointed out that it’s laced with something else, and our experts have been unable to pinpoint what exactly. So until they do, Aurors will have to remain here and in Hogsmeade for safety measures even though I personally don’t think the students will be a target,” she paused and chewed on her bottom lip. “But this isn’t the reason I wanted to talk to you today.”

McGonagall looked at her inquisitively. “Hermione?”

“I- Do you-” she stopped and cast a quick glance at the portraits hanging on the walls. Her eyes met Dumbledore’s portrait; he appeared to be dozing off, but she didn’t trust him nor the other portraits in the room.

“Would you like to talk somewhere more private, dear?” McGonagall offered, catching on her current unease.

“Yes, please,” she breathed out gratefully and stood up.

She was right in thinking that the few occupants in the portraits were pretending to be sleeping, because she heard mutterings behind her as soon as she followed McGonagall out of the circular room and along a narrow hallway, leading to another room.

The room was painted a deep burgundy colour, which looked brownish under the flickering flames of the fireplace that danced across the walls. The room was dotted with sofas and armchairs covered in tan-coloured velvet, and another, wider corridor led to other rooms. McGonagall’s chambers hadn’t changed at all since the last time she was here, which dated back to last year; she usually preferred to meet with her former Professor outside of Hogwarts.

Hermione sat down on the armchair closest to the fire while McGonagall took a seat on the one opposite hers. She should’ve felt less nervous now that they were out of earshot from the portraits in the office, especially Dumbledore’s and Snape’s, but she didn’t. If anything, she felt more tense now that they were alone and the older woman’s attention was solely on her.

“Hermione, dear, is everything alright?”

She took a deep breath and tried to slow down the beating of her heart. She felt the exact same way she did the night following the Final Battle, sitting in this very room and feeling distraught and bereaved beyond repair.

_Hermione bit back another sob, her face scrunched with grief and tears, as she was handed a glass of cold water and tried to gulp a mouthful without hiccupping. The painful throbbing in her chest only seemed to intensify tenfold with each passing moment, and the warm hand gently rubbing circles on her back did nothing to dull it. Usually, she would feel uncomfortable putting her emotions on display like that, especially in front her favourite Professor, but she was far too gone to care._

_She felt empty inside, horribly empty like someone had pulled a stopper and left her hollow; like she had been drained of all the things that made her human; like something wonderful had been stolen out of her. It was unbearable. She couldn’t believe she was gone forever. She kept trying to think of something else to keep herself under control but all she could think about was that unbearably soft and curly dark hair; that wild and unpredictable attitude; the somewhat tender side of her that she didn’t let others see and that she’d had the privilege to be at the receiving end of. How was she supposed to live like this?_

_The worst part was how she died. Defeated by one single curse she could’ve usually deflected with so much ease had she not been abruptly distracted. Her hand went to her bandaged arm. Madam Pomfrey had cleaned out the wound in no time, and it would completely heal within the next few days. She was lucky, she had told her, that Greyback had been swiftly dealt with and hadn’t gotten as far as biting her. It had been a relief at first, but it had been short-lived when she remembered who she owed her life to and the price she had to pay for it._

_It was her fault. It was her fault. It was her fault._

_It was her fault she was dead. The dark witch had only been trying to protect her in that moment, and she had been unable to do the same. Supposed Brightest Witch of her Age, and she had been unable to save her. In every possible way. They had made a deal; Bellatrix had kept her end of the bargain and she hadn’t. She was supposed to keep her out of Azkaban and now she was gone. It was all because she hadn’t been brave enough to tell someone, not even Harry and Ron. And now, even if she did, it would be too late. It wouldn’t bring her back. Nothing could, and she would have to wrestle with that for the rest of her life._

_Guilt and remorse wouldn’t bring back to life the one person she lov- Her breath hitched. She knew with terrible, crushing certainty that that was what she felt; she’d heard about it; she’d read about it; she knew the symptoms, but she’d just never experienced them before until now and she couldn’t bring herself to utter the word or even think it a second time. It was far too damning._

_“Hermione, talk to me,” McGonagall’s voice cut through her numbness._

_She rubbed her eyes with her fists and inhaled deeply, sniffling a couple of times. She tried to level her breathing to a normal pace and supress the sorrow that was eating away at her mind and body. Tried to focus, too, but she knew it was all for naught. She swallowed against the heavy lump in her throat, fighting against the wave of nausea that was threatening to overtake her, but the words just wouldn’t make it past her lips._

In the end, she hadn’t found the strength in her to recount everything from the start and had simply extracted the memories from her mind for McGonagall to watch. She had seen _everything_ , and although she had been puzzled and speechless, she hadn’t judged her once or berated her for her foolishness. And she hoped and prayed that she wouldn’t this time around as well.

“Minerva, I-” she cleared her throat and gulped nervously, forcing herself to look her in the eyes. “I need to tell you something.”

“I’m listening, Hermione,” she encouraged with a patient smile and a nod.

“Please, don’t be upset with me,” she pleaded and fiddled with a loose thread on her pants.

“Hermione, you’re starting to worry me,” McGonagall said, her eyebrows crinkling together. “What happened?”

Hermione closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath to suppress the fear in her heart and give her the courage to continue speaking. She knew she was about to go against the dark witch’s wishes, and it was more than likely that she would resent and be incensed with her when she would find out, but she was done being a coward about this. And today, she would do what was right and what she promised her all those years ago: freedom and a second chance at a new life, free of Voldemort and the expectations and abuse of her family.

She opened her mouth; she would slowly ease her former Professor into it-

“Bellatrix is not dead.”

Her eyes widened and she broke out in cold sweat. That… had not been what she meant to say. She hadn’t meant to blurt it out so abruptly.

Everything was silent for a moment, except for the ticking sound of the clock that stood majestically in the right end of the room and the sound of her beating heart, which seemed to thunder in her mind as fear swept through her like none she had ever known. There was no going back now. It was in the open now and she couldn’t take back her words and start all over again, nor did she want to. Weeks of torment and planning had come down to these four words: _Bellatrix is not dead._ It had been as easy to say as breathing, but now she had to await McGonagall’s reaction.

The older woman sat completely still, as though she’d been turned to stone, and had yet to say anything. Hermione worried she was in a state of shock, and guilt washed over her. She shouldn’t have dumped this on her out of nowhere; McGonagall was in her seventies now, she should’ve been more considerate.

“Prof-” she started, but was cut off when McGonagall seemed to break out of her shock.

“Bellatrix is not dead,” she repeated carefully as if to make sure she heard her right.

“Yes,” she croaked out and nodded slowly.

“Hermione…” she exhaled and took off her glasses, pinching the bridge of her nose. “What are you saying? Have you been having nightmares again, dear?”

Her shoulders slumped. She knew that was what she would it put it down to: her recurring dreams and nightmares about the raven-haired witch. Too many times in her last year at Hogwarts she had found herself knocking on McGonagall’s door late at night, seeking the woman’s comfort after a particularly bad dream. 

She lowered her lashes and shook her head from side to side. “No… I know it sounds crazy, but-” She heaved a sigh and gripped the armrests to keep from digging her nails into her own flesh.

“How do you know, Hermione?” she demanded.

“She came to me.”

“She came to you?”

She nodded, feeling tears pool in her eyes as she thought about that night when she split into pieces upon seeing her in the flesh for the first time in years.

McGonagall leaned forwards in her seat. “Tell me everything, Hermione.”

And she did. She told her about how Bellatrix showed up in her Ministry Office in October; how she’d been out of the country for the past years but only returned to England a few months ago; how she told her the next day about how she survived and managed to escape unnoticed, and how they had been meeting a few times a week since Christmas. She told her pretty much everything, being careful not to tell her where she was staying and leaving out the parts where they had been intimate, and her former Professor listened with willing ears, without interrupting her once.

When she was done, McGonagall handed her a tissue and she wiped her eyes, sniffling a little. She felt a bit lighter now that she had gotten this load off her mind and chest. Finally confiding in someone about this felt nice, and she vowed to herself that from this point forwards, she would do her best to be truthful with everyone.

“This is quite a lot, Hermione,” McGonagall started after a moment, sounding just as worn out as she felt inside.

“I know,” she whispered and looked down. “I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t unload this burden onto you, but I don’t know what else to do… You’re the only one who knows about her. And I’m also sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

“Don’t apologise, Hermione. I understand.”

“You do?” she looked up, surprised.

She nodded silently. “I can’t say this was what I was expecting when you came in, but I can imagine how shellshocked it must’ve left you and I can only thank you for being brave enough to share this with me.”

“Thank you for your understanding,” she smiled sadly.

“May I ask if Madam Lestrange-”

“Black,” she corrected instinctively and immediately flushed when McGonagall tilted her head and looked at her over the rim of her glasses.

“Very well,” she said. “May I ask if Miss Black knows you’re here?”

She swallowed nervously, hands rubbing over the other. “No… No, she doesn’t,” she admitted. “She’d probably be very angry with me if she did.”

“Do I need to ask why that is?”

She sighed heavily and rubbed her forehead. “She thinks she’ll be immediately thrown back into Azkaban… She won’t admit it, but I know she’s terrified.”

“Understandably so,” McGonagall nodded. “I’ve never approved of the Ministry’s treatment of their prisoners. Using Dementors on them was beyond barbaric, however grave their crimes may be, although, of course, things have changed since the end of the war.”

“She doesn’t believe nor trust me when I tell her that won’t happen.”

“Hermione,” the other woman sighed, “This is a very delicate situation, and you have to tread very carefully. The Wizengamot and the Wizarding community won’t be as forgiving as you are, and your authority as Minister for Magic will be jeopardised. They will stop valuing your judgment.”

“I know,” she said woefully, “I know I’m risking a lot with this… which is why I came to you first. I need your help, Minerva.”

“My help?” The older woman’s eyebrows shot up.

“I know my word will probably mean next to nothing, I’m too involved, so I was wondering if you might be willing to… testify for her if it comes down to it…” She had often asked McGonagall for help and advice over the years concerning legal matters and other Ministry business – she greatly valued her opinion – but she’d never felt as pathetic and ashamed as she did now.

“Hermione…”

“I know I’m asking for too much, but I just want to right the wrong that I did all those years ago…”

“You did nothing wrong, dear. You were so young.”

“But I did… I could’ve told you or the Order about our deal before it was too late, but I didn’t because I was too scared and now, Bellatrix is back and I’m stuck in this messy situation with no way out it seems.”

“Hermione, as I told you after you confided in me following the Final Battle, you were on the run and then, the Battle of Hogwarts happened all too quickly for you to gather everyone and tell us the whole story. A lot of lives were still saved thanks to the deal you made with her. It’s not your fault, it never was. Miss Black is a grown woman who is aware of her own actions. I don’t claim to know her motives, but if she so wanted to start with a clean slate, she could’ve presented herself to us or to you when she recovered instead of fleeing.”

“But see, that’s where I disagree with you because I have a suspicion she did seek me out but she backtracked when she saw Ron, and that’s when she left the country…” she countered. She wasn’t entirely sure that was true, but she remembered what she saw in her mind very clearly. She remembered the excitement, followed quickly by disappointment.

“Did she tell you this?”

“No, she isn’t the most open person in the world as you know, and there’s so much that hasn’t been said, but I have reason to believe that’s what happened,” she said, not wanting to tell her about their altercation in Black Manor. 

McGonagall nodded, seemingly pondering over her words. Her face, calm and serene, gave nothing away as to what she was thinking or how she was feeling about the whole ordeal.

“She still killed and tortured people, Hermione,” she eventually said and she felt her heart freefall from her chest to her feet. “Even if her actions towards the end of the war are acknowledged, she will still get a sentence for her other actions after her escape from Azkaban.”

“I’m aware of that,” she said dejectedly. “She isn’t completely innocent, but she isn’t pure evil either. I just think she deserves another chance. I know she has it in her… You don’t know her like I do.”

“I will think about it.”

All the tension left her body like a river flowing into the ocean and was replaced with relief. Maybe all was not lost.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you so much.”

Her former Professor smiled warmly at her. “Now, I don’t mean to pry, but I can’t help but notice you look a bit happier than you have in a long while.”

“Oh, erh…” she cleared her throat. “Do I?”

“Yes. Don’t get me wrong, you didn’t look sad per se, but it was as though a grey cloud was always looming over you, dulling your eyes and holding your smiles from reaching your eyes. Now, you look as though you have been brought back to life,” McGonagall explained gently.

Hermione blushed and looked away.

“Forgive my indiscretion.”

“No, don’t,” she smiled timidly. “I suppose you’re right. I do feel… happier than I have in a long time and like I can think and breathe again.”

“I’m happy to hear that, Hermione.” She could tell McGonagall wanted to ask if it had anything to do with Bellatrix but didn’t, and for that, she was grateful. She never asked too many questions, and that was what she liked about her.

“Would you like some tea, dear?”

“Oh, I should go,” she said. “You probably have things to do.”

“Nonsense,” McGonagall shook her head and stood up. “I’m never too busy to have a chat with one of my favourite former students.”

Hermione chuckled at the blatant favouritism. “Then, I’d love to,” she nodded and stood up to help her.

***

When she left McGonagall’s office an hour later with the promise to be careful and not worry too much, she felt lighter than she had when she first arrived.

Up until that point, she had felt burdened with a sense of shame; burdened with the crushing feeling of guilt; burdened with the conviction of weakness; burdened in every way. But now… Now, she had hope that there was light at the end of the tunnel. She had hope that both of them, her and Bellatrix, would make it through.

She trusted McGonagall completely. If anyone could help them, it was her, and she hoped that Bellatrix would eventually see that too.

She shook her head and quickly left the castle, smiling at the few students she encountered in the corridors, and made her way to the greenhouses where she knew Neville would be. And sure enough, he was there but he wasn’t alone: Teddy was with him as always. _I should’ve known_ , she thought with a smile.

They were both wearing a thick pair of earmuffs and were in the middle of repotting a few particularly feisty Mandrakes, so they didn’t notice her. She waited and watched them through the glass until the Mandrakes were happy in their new pots before making her presence known.

Neville was the first to see her and he removed his earmuffs. “Oh, hi, Hermione!”

Teddy turned sharply upon hearing her name and knocked into the nearest table, the pots rattling dangerously. Neville quickly moved to steady the table before any disaster happened while Teddy rushed to her side and beamed at her. “Hey, Aunty Mione,” he hugged her briefly.

“Hey, Teddy,” she ruffled his hair and wrapped her arm around his shoulder.

“I didn’t know you were coming today, Hermione,” Neville said after he removed his gloves and cleaned his hands.

“Oh, I just had an appointment with McGonagall,” she waved her hand. “I thought I’d also drop by to say hi.”

“Nothing bad, I hope?”

“Ah no, we just had a chat,” she dismissed. “So, how have you been, Neville? It’s been a while,” she asked, leaning against the nearest table while Teddy wandered off somewhere else.

“I’ve been good, I’ve just been busy grading papers lately, and I’m going to introduce the Second Year students to the Mandrakes tomorrow as you can see,” he gestured at the numerous plots in the greenhouse.

“I’m sure you’re going to have to answer loads of questions about the Chamber of Secrets,” she shook her head with amusement.

“Ugh, don’t, please,” he sighed dramatically. “Teddy has been helping me, and even he asked me questions despite the fact he already knows what happened.”

“Have you considered hiring him as an apprentice after he graduates in a few years?” she joked.

“Honestly, I have,” he laughed. “But how have you been? How have things been at the Ministry?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. It’s always something new every day, with new bills and squabbles with the Goblins or power hungry Purebloods who claim they’ve been discriminated against in recent years,” she rolled her eyes. “How’s Luna?”

“Oh, you missed her! She was here as well but went off to the Forbidden Forest to feed the Thestrals like half an hour ago,” he said. “We felt the baby kick yesterday,” he grinned.

“Oh, Neville, that’s amazing! I’m so happy for you,” she hugged him and patted his back. “You’re both going to be such wonderful parents.”

“I hope so,” his ears turned red and he scratched the back of his neck. “I just wish I could share all of this with Mum and Dad as well.”

The mention of his parents was a punch in the gut, and her good mood soured a little at the reminder that Bellatrix was the reason his parents couldn’t even remember they had a son.

“They would be so proud, Neville,” she said in a low voice, trying to quench the guilt that bubbled in her throat like caustic bile.

He nodded wordlessly and they continued chatting, but her heart wasn’t really in it anymore and her mind was already detaching, his voice fading to the back of her mind. So, she was relieved, but also alarmed, when a scream suddenly interrupted their conversation and they rushed to the adjoining greenhouse, only to find a young student caught in the tendrils of Devil’s Snare.

“What did I tell you about sneaking into the greenhouse, Mister Davis?” Neville reprimanded, taking out his wand and turning to Hermione. “Sorry, Hermione,” he said apologetically.

“It’s okay, Neville. I’ll leave you to it. I was going to go down to Hagrid’s, anyway.”

“Okay, well, I’ll see you around!”

“See you, Neville,” she waved behind her and left, but not before hearing the student exclaim, “Was that Hermione Granger?!” and Neville answer, “You have to relax!”

A small, amused smile crept up her lips as she made her way down the familiar path leading to Hagrid’s hut, hoping the half-giant was still there and not in the Forbidden Forest.

**Author's Note:**

> Until next time, stay safe and wear a mask!


End file.
